The 10th Ami
by Daughter of Thranduil
Summary: Although this focuses on Enjolras mainly, this is the story of the 10th member of the the Friends of the ABC, and how his fate made the Amis decide to take action against the injustice in France. Rated for swearing. Final Chapter and Epilogue now up!
1. We're all too stressed!

**I've decided to finally get round to polishing up this story. This was my first piece published on the site in 2006, and remains one of my favourites, so I've decided to tidy it up a little. Reviews are still gratefully recieved, even though the story is four years old now.**

**1829**

* * *

The scene in the Café Musain on that September lunchtime was very much as it always was. The solemn countenance of Enjolras was partially hidden as he poured over the content of a sizeable Latin law volume; Combeferre was methodically working through his own latest piece of coursework on the details measles; Courfeyrac, despite being a law student himself with a large workload, had decided that his free morning was better spent in irritating Enjolras by tickling the back of his neck with his pen every few minutes and then hurriedly looking away with an innocent expression; Joly was holding up a spoon to look at the colour of his tongue in the reflection, utterly convinced that he had every symptom which Combeferre was writing down; Bahorel was animatedly describing the brawl he had participated in last night to an amused Feuilly, who was deftly stitching some intricate pattern on one of the fans he had produced earlier that day; L'aigle was cheerfully bemoaning his complete lack of luck and nursing a fierce scuff on his forehead, having walked into the door post on his way inside; Jean Prouvaire, the dreamer of the group, repeatedly wrote a few lines before crossing them out, as he struggled to write the second stanza of his latest poem…and Grantaire had a hangover.

"I've got Koplik spots! I know I have! Look at me! I'm coming down with the measles!" groaned a distressed Joly, as clearly as he could around his protruding tongue.

"I shall never understand, Joly, why your parents ever allowed you to study medicine!" said Courfeyrac with a teasing grin. "I've never met such a profound hypochondriac! I pity your future patients – ten minutes in your consulting room, and you shall be throwing them out lest they pass on any illness!"

"You do _not _have the symptoms of measles, Christophe!" said Combeferre with exaggerated patience, shaking his head in amusement as he looked up from his essay. "There is nothing whatsoever wrong with you, except your over-active imagination!"

"Count your blessings! It could be worse, my friend," groaned Grantaire, in a hoarse voice, not bothering to remove his forehead from the tabletop. "You could have an overactive headache, like me!"

Enjolras discreetly rolled his eyes, a sneer momentarily marring his well-sculpted face, as he turned his attention back to his book. Suddenly, he felt a light tickle on the back of his neck again. He looked around, with a glare that could turn a person to stone, and saw Courfeyrac putting on his most innocent expression, while pretending to study his own copy of the textbook, which incidentally was upside down. Very convincing.

"Speaking of illness, there _is_ something of an influenza epidemic on the loose, so I've heard," said the quiet Prouvaire, twirling his pen between his fingers. "Apparently quite a serious one too."

At that, Joly gave a horrified groan, muttered something about never coming out of his room again and began to frantically feel the glands at his throat. The two crowded tables erupted in laughter and Joly ceased panicking for a moment to look indignant.

"My friend, if that is all you think about, you soon will be ill," said Combeferre wisely; knowing from extensive experience that Joly was capable of being a perfectly cheerful fellow when he wasn't convinced he was dying. "Mind over matter, you know... do talk about something else! What did you think of the lecture this morning?" Joly's face brightened at that, and out of the corner of his eyes, Combeferre saw a grinning Courfeyrac reaching for Enjolras's neck again.

"I thought it was fascinating; the way he told us he could use a scalpel to…" began Joly eagerly, before he was silenced by the slam of a heavy book and Enjolras's furious voice:

"_Mais oui_ and if Courfeyrac does not leave my neck alone, Courfeyrac is going to find himself with a scalpel up his…"

"Language Apollo!" grinned Courfeyrac, which made Enjolras's eyes narrow dangerously. If there was sure way to make him even angrier, it was to call him that awful nickname of Grantaire's! Courfeyrac noticed the icy expression on his friend's face, and hurriedly scooted his chair further around the table; out of Enjolras's reach.

"Calm down, Julien," said Combeferre softly, laying a gentle hand on Enjolras's arm. "You fall for it every time. I know you're stressed and…"

"I am _not _stressed!" groaned Enjolras in frustration, turning his frown towards Combeferre, only to have it soften at the sight of his friend's affectionate smile. _Why am I so touchy today?_ He thought to himself as he raised a hand to rub his eyes. Maybe it was because he didn't sleep well last night, or because of the pounding headache he was currently suffering, but refusing to admit to. Whatever it was, Combeferre certainly did not deserve his anger! He sighed contritely. "Sorry, Etienne. I did not mean to snap at you."

"It's fine, my friend. Think nothing of it. I just do not like to see you so uptight," said Combeferre, still smiling. He and Enjolras had been companions since childhood, and the two had such a close friendship that Combeferre knew his friend almost as well as he knew himself. And he could clearly tell that Enjolras needed a break – the others too! It was clear that everyone was over-working; the signs were easy to see. When stressed, Enjolras became irritable, Courfeyrac became childish....well, even more childish that usual, Joly was convinced he was dying and even Feuilly, the least highly strung of the group, became snarky and touchy. "In my opinion, we are all of us working too hard right now. I think a night of relaxation would do everyone world of good."

"Good idea!" said Courfeyrac enthusiastically; always ready to welcome any excuse for procrastination. "I could use a break from all this studying!"

"_Studying_?" Enjolras exploded again; once more losing his usual controlled demeanour. "Jerôme, you haven't done a single ounce of work all bloody morning! All you have done is sigh all through the lecture and copy my notes!"

Luckily for Courfeyrac, he was spared any further recriminations from Enjolras by the entrance of the last member of their group, Claude LeClair, with an armful of books.

"_Bonjour _Claude!" said Prouvaire enthusiastically, welcoming LeClair's timely arrival as a distraction from the argument that was bound to ensue between Courfeyrac and Enjolras.

"_Bonjour mes amis_," replied LeClair, with his natural easy smile. He sat down on the last vacant seat, next to Bahorel. "I'm sorry I am so late today. What have I missed?"

"Nothing of important, minus the mighty Apollo trying to reduce Courfeyrac to a pile of rubble," grinned Grantaire, before he winced and cradled his head again; the previous night's over indulgence had been rather extreme, even for Grantaire, and now he was suffering for it.

_Just ignore him!_ Enjolras sternly told himself as the rest of the young men laughed. He very seldom had time for Grantaire's nonsensical musings or teasing comments, even on the best of days. Today, however, his excruciating headache meant that he found the drunkard even more irritating than usual and it took supreme effort not to lose his temper again.

"Here is the book you lent me, Enjolras," LeClair said cheerfully, distracting the blond-headed student from his headache and irritation. He handed _The Speeches of Robespierre_ across the table. "Thank you, it was very interesting."

"Not at all," Enjolras made himself smile in return. "I'm glad you enjoyed it; I thought you would find it interesting."

It really was quite difficult to remain irritated around LeClair. His naturally easy-going disposition meant that he laughed easily, was seldom offended and was always ready to offer assistance if he thought he could provide it. Loyal by nature, and determined to see the good in everyone LeClair was – like both Prouvaire and Combeferre – fast friends with every one of the amis, while the others in the group were inclined to clash from time to time...Enjolras and Grantaire frequently had their moments, and one really did not want to be around when Joly and Bahorel were at each other's throats!

LeClair was a student, as were Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Prouvaire, Joly and L'aigle. But, unlike most of his fellows, he was exceptionally poor. He had gained entrance to the university through sheer luck, thanks to a small inheritance, but that was only enough to pay his tuition. He had sold absolutely everything he could afford to get rid of in order to purchase his equipment – for he took his studies very seriously – and the result was that he lived in extreme poverty, though was perfectly cheerful about it. He had a mind that was constantly eager for knowledge and he consequently found the gatherings of the Amis de l'ABC (a pun devised by Courfeyrac), and their conversations on everything from politics to poetry, to be enthralling and so never missed a meeting.

"We were just saying that everyone is over-stressed at the moment, what with all the additional coursework we have been getting," said Combeferre, laying his pen down again and stretching languidly . "I was suggesting that we meet here in the Musain tomorrow night for a few drinks and have a night free from work. It would help everyone to wind down."

"I think that is a good idea!" said Bahorel amiably. "It would certainly liven things up a bit – you are all too serious, these days! At any rate, it ought to keep me from getting involved in another brawl." He rubbed his knuckles ruefully.

"We can live in hope, my friend," Prouvaire laughed merrily. "But I agree; it _would_ be nice to take it easy for a change. With the examinations looming, I don't think we've had an evening off for weeks."

"Well I certainly shan't differ from Bahorel's opinion," laughed LeClair lightly. "I value my face too much, and I have no wish to add to the bruises on his knuckles!" That was a joke, and everyone knew it; for however many fights Bahorel got into after leaving the group meetings, he had never resorted to blows with any of his friends, not even during his famous rows with Joly.

The others laughed at LeClair's teasing comments, the previous tension in the room gone – though Enjolras looked alarmingly white faced, and was a lot quieter than usual. Combeferre was therefore relieved when his solemn best friend agreed, as the remainder of the group did to put his studies aside for a night and gather in the café the following evening for a purely social meeting. He broke from his musings to look at his pocket-watch and hurriedly gathered up his books, beckoning to Joly and LeClair.

"Well, much as I'd love to stay here, we three have a class," he said genially as he got to his feet. "Enjolras, Courfeyrac, so do you, remember?" Courfeyrac gave a dramatic groan.

"Pardon?" said Enjolras distractedly, as his friend looked at him with obvious concern. "Oh, yes, so I have." He got to his feet, running his hands through his hair, looking profoundly exhausted.

"I think you should get some sleep, Enjolras." said Prouvaire gently. "You look as though you need it."

"Thank you, Jehan," Enjolras gave a weak smile at the young poet. "I will."

"And he has the perfect opportunity during the next two hours!" grinned Courfeyrac, looking for a book he had put into his satchel moments before. "We have a lecture from Professor Artoire, and sleeping is certainly the only thing on my agenda!"

Combeferre shook his head in amusement as he and Enjolras walked across to the door, before he turned to his friend with a serious face. "Julien, are you sure you're alright?" he pressed worriedly, as Joly, LeClaur and Courfeyrac joined them, calling farewells to the others.

"Fine, Etienne, I'm fine," Enjolras insisted wearily. "I am just tired, there's no need to fuss!"

Combeferre was not convinced, but decided to say nothing as they left the café to the call of: "Farewell, Mighty Apollo!"

All in all, it was probably a very good thing that Enjolras did not have the energy to reply – Grantaire might have regretted that!


	2. Proud Students

_A decisive persecution lawyer can, ibso facto,..._

Enjolras's pen stopped half way across the page and he raised his left hand to support his head, which felt as though it was getting heavier by the minute. His headache was now even worse than it had been at lunchtime, his eyes felt like they were too big for their sockets, and he was beginning to perspire. He let his eyelids snap shut for the briefest of moments, hoping that the brief interlude with the absence of light might ease the pounding sensation behind his eyes. No such luck.

_Come on, Julien! Concentrate!_ he told himself angrily. For Enjolras, feeling poorly was a novel experience indeed for, like several of the other Amis, he had had the benefit of a very wealthy upbringing and had consequently grown up strong and healthy, free from many of the childhood afflictions that plagued those of lesser fortune. Now, however, he simply felt awful! He was inexplicably tired and groggy, and his head was throbbing like a drumbeat; constant, loud and strong. If it did not cease, it was slowly going to drive him...

"Enjolras!"

"What?" he snapped himself out of his thoughts to see Courfeyrac, who was sitting next to him, gazing at him with raised eyebrows.

"You've been staring at the desk for about ten minutes," his friend whispered. "And you haven't taken down the quotes from that German lawyer he was talking about. It's not like you to be daydreaming, that's my forte! That's why I need to copy you all the time, remember? You're the studious one and I'm…"

"Making me miss even more of the lecture!" said Enjolras firmly, as he began to furiously scribble down what Professor Artoire was saying, running his free hand over his clammy face. He knew he would have to pay close attention from that point on, or else Courfeyrac would be the next one demanding to know what was bothering him! At any rate, Enjolras failed to see what Combeferre had been so worried about. Prouvaire had been right – he just needed a little sleep!

Courfeyrac grinned to himself as he turned his attention back to his own page of notes. Enjolras was could be so boringly well-behaved! Honestly, the boy wasn't even allowing himself the rare luxury of not paying attention. He wondered if he should flip a pen at the blond while his head was bent, and test his temper. However, when Enjolras raised his head to look up at the professor, Courfeyrac decided against his little prank. He might be lazy, he might be mischievous, and he might even be rather childish on occasion, he told himself, but one thing was certain – he was _not_ unobservant.

Enjolras _really_ did not look well! His skin was naturally pale, even when he was in the bloom of health, but today he looked practically colourless. Courfeyrac could clearly see the sheen of sweat covering his face, and the room was anything but warm. His eyes didn't look as sharp and attentive as usual either; they looked as though they were struggling to focus.

"_Typical Enjolras_!" he thought wryly. "Suffering and too proud to admit it to anyone! It is a good thing that he is the only one that stubborn!"

Unfortunately, Courfeyrac did not realise that he could not have been more mistaken!

But for now, he was decided – if Enjolras so much as even sighed throughout the remainder of this lecture, he was going to tell Combeferre that their friend was hiding something - for Combeferre was the only one who could really confront Enjolras without having to fear for his life!

* * *

Combeferre, in the mean time, was busy at work in one of the many small laboratories in the medicine-devoted wing of the university. He, Joly and LeClair were gathered around a workbench, peering down at a sheep's heart, and deciding where the best place was to begin dissecting.

"Move your scalpel up a little, that's right," muttered Joly distractedly, cleaning his glasses with a handkerchief, as Combeferre meticulously began to work. "Well, friends...any bets on who will be drunk tomorrow night?"

"Hmmm, that is a difficult one, _mon ami_!" said LeClair sarcastically. "The name Luc Grantaire practically bounces to mind! Anyway, whoever it is, it shan't be me. I shall not drinking tomorrow night."

"Why not?" asked Combeferre in surprise. Though LeClair was not in the habit of getting ridiculously drunk like Grantaire, or even any more than moderately tipsy, he had never hesitated to join the Amis in a glass of wine on previous occasions. Joly was even more surprised to notice the shade of red which crept across LeClair's cheeks in response to Combeferre's question.

"Etienne, at the moment I have no idea where my next rent payment is going to come from, and it is due next Wednesday! I hardly think it would be very wise of me to be throwing what little I have away on alcohol!" he said, looking uncomfortable at the confession of his own poverty.

"Claude, you know you are always welcome to borrow from any of us if you are in trouble," said Joly kindly, laying his hand on LeClair's shoulder. "I would be glad to help you, if I could."

"Me also," said Combeferre, his gentle brown eyes shining with compassion. He and Joly were the sons of wealthy men, and it would be no trouble for them to lend their friend some money.

LeClair was touched, and for a moment tears threatened in his eyes, but his blush deepened and he squared his shoulders nevertheless. "You are very generous, both of you, and I truly do appreciate the kindness you show me, but no, thank you; you are my friends and I could not use you so."

"Use us?" said Joly incredulously. "That is nonsense Claude! You cannot use anyone if you accept a favour which is gladly offered. L'Aigle borrows from me all the time. I do not begrudge him a sou – I know he is much worse off than I am, but would do the same for me if our situations were reversed. Our friendship does not suffer for it, for I know he will pay me back whenever he can. I am simply glad to help a friend."

"I know that, Christophe," said LeClair softly. "But as they say: 'Neither a borrower nor a lender be'."

"Who said that?" remarked Combeferre interestedly, bowing his head over the heart once more as they continued to work. "Voltaire?"

"No." LeClair shook his head. "It is an English playwright – the name eludes me presently – whose work Jehan is currently very keen on. He was reciting some of it to me the other evening."

"Well you, my friend, are not an English playwright," said Combeferre. "And you must know that, should you change your mind, either of us would be happy to help you."

"Thank you, Etienne, I do appreciate it. Please do not think me ungrateful. I just simply cannot let myself accept it."

"_Mon Dieu_!" sighed Joly, in a surprisingly accurate impersonation of Courfeyrac. "I do declare, Claude, that you are becoming as proud as Enjolras! Thank heavens I am not that stubborn!"

At that, Combeferre burst out laughing and LeClair raised his eyebrows, regarding Joly with a teasingly sceptical look. "Indeed, my friend?" he grinned. "Then I must endeavour to remind you of an incident that occurred in the Café Musain last week, when a certain Christophe Joly and Sebastien Bahorel were shouting insults at each other so loudly, they even succeeded in waking Grantaire from his drunken stupor."

"Yes…well…he deserved that!" said Joly, colouring quickly. "I had been working for hours on that essay; it was almost five pages long, and just as I was writing the last paragraph, the great swaggering lout bursts in the door, talking to Jehan so quickly, I could not understand a word. He was flinging his arms about in that ridiculous way of his and, without even looking where he was going, the big lummox knocked my ink bottle clean over and onto my essay. There wasn't a single page still presentable – they were all ruined because he was so clumsy!"

"Ah, Christophe, _mon ami_." gasped Combeferre, laughing helplessly at the memory. "You should have seen yourself! You had a glare worthy of Julien, and you went so red I thought you might burst!"

"And I never imagined you could shout so loud, what with all the throat infections you always seem to have!" teased LeClair mercilessly, now thoroughly glad the discussion had moved away from his financial situation, and attempting to keep it that way. "I imagine the whole street heard you shouting: _You stupid bloody lout! Look what you've done, you big oaf!_"

"Though of course Sebastien's replying language was a little less gentle." chuckled Combeferre. "And when you started swearing too, Christophe, I just couldn't believe it. Hearing you swear is like seeing Jehan lose his temper – it never happens."

"He made me want to swear!" said Joly darkly. "Standing there cursing at me for being such a _prissy little bastard_, implying that I could just as easily do the essay again! He wouldn't even apologise, the big clumsy idiot!"

"And I think even the dead heard you next exclamations!" said LeClair gleefully, before mimicking his friend once more. "_I do happen to take my studies seriously, Bahorel! I do plan on becoming a doctor one day! We cannot all of us be useless idle loafers like you! _Honestly Christophe, the wealth of curses you used after that quite impressed me! And as for Sebastien's face when you threw that ink bottle at him! Priceless! I thought you were in for a bloody nose after that."

"I felt sorry for Feuilly!" said Combeferre, wiping his eyes. "Poor Jacques, trying to stand in between you and get you to calm down, only to have you both glare at him and yell at him to stay out of it. He didn't know who to side with either, for even though he is Sebastien's best friend, he was obviously sorry for you, Christophe. I must admire his courage though, stepping in between you and Bahorel rowing is a task beyond me."

"All right, all right!" said Joly hurriedly. "You need not reminisce any more, you have made your point abundantly clear, _mes amis_! Anyway, that was only the once."

"Once?" laughed LeClair. "What about the time Sebastien walked into the café with two black eyes and you decided to start laughing and asked him what woman was responsible? Or the time he deliberately tripped you up on the stairs and spilt wine all over your new jacket? Or the time he said…"

"Oh be quiet Claude!" Joly cried, blushing deeply and hurriedly searching for a change of subject. Combeferre subsided into chuckles again, while LeClair seemed to have laughed a little too hard, for he was wheezing and patting his chest with a pained look on his face. He shook away their concerns.

"_Pardon_," he said quickly. "It is nothing. I got a little carried away."

Combeferre was about to answer when the sound of coughing from the corridor distracted them. "You know, that influenza epidemic that Jehan was talking about is supposed to be very serious." he told the others solemnly. "I think we should all be especially careful over the next few weeks or so." Joly nodded fervently.

LeClair desperately fought not to cough. _Not now!_ he thought in horror. If he gave way to another vicious bout of coughing like he had had this morning, he would never to be able to explain it away. They would surely know what was wrong with him, and would insist on his seeing a doctor and accepting money from them to pay for it. And he really couldn't allow that! He just couldn't.

Besides, it probably was not that serious. He would handle it on his own. After all, he was a medical student himself, wasn't he?


	3. Two Sick Amis

When the three medical students left the university that evening, Joly and Combeferre walked as far as the library with LeClair and bid him a genial farewell. Combeferre shared rooms with Enjolras in the wealthiest part of town, while Joly lived with L'Aigle a few streets away from them. LeClair, who headed off in the opposite direction, lived alone in a much poorer part of Paris. He tried not to envy his friends their wealth, but it was often very difficult. Very difficult indeed!

He practically ran down the cobbled street and bounded round the corner, so as to be absolutely certain that he was out of earshot of his friends, before he burst into a violent fit of coughing. He slumped against a wall for support, almost bent double. The huge wrenching coughs pained him like a kick in the chest and his heart was began to hammer at a furious pace.

The wheezing tore at his throat and left him dazed for several moments. When he finally got his breath back, LeClair hurriedly wiped the perspiration from his pallid face and began slowly making his way towards the wretched, cold hovel that was his home.

"Hello Claude, my love," said Madame Dupont, his landlady, when he went in the door.

"Good evening, Madame," LeClair bowed his head politely, before hastily making his way through to his room and collapsing on the bed, breaking into another fit of violent coughing.

When he finally had the ability to breathe again, Claude flopped weakly back against his pillows, flushed with the heat and yet, paradoxically, shivering like some wounded animal. He sighed sadly, as he looked around the room. The paint on the wall was chipped and peeling, the draughty window was filthy, the threadbare rug on the floor was rough and worn. The only furniture was a small armoire, a bed and a chair – the dark room was a stark contrast to the vivacious and friendly personality of its inhabitant. It was cold and cheerless, and only heightened the black veil of gloom that threatened to envelop him every time he walked through the door.

"Oh Christ!" he choked to himself weakly, reaching for the small basin which sat at the side of his bed, as he gave a deep cough that sent sharp waves of pain through him. "If you have any mercy at all, stop this torture!"

And he ducked over the basin and was violently sick.

* * *

Combeferre and Joly walked the rest of the way together, parting cheerfully when they reached the building where Combeferre and Enjolras's rooms were. Combeferre climbed the stairs quickly, pausing only moments to drop off a book at the apartment which Prouvaire and Courfeyrac shared; a floor below his own. He mounted the last flight at the same speed and let himself into the apartment to find, to his surprise, that Enjolras had arrived home first; deviating from his usual habit of spending an extra couple of hours in the university library for private study.

Their rooms were of an average size; pleasant and warm. In fact, for want of a better word, they were homely, and as different from poor LeClair's rooms as it was possible to be. The rooms were clean and bright; there were books on the shelves, pictures on the walls, and the furniture was of the best quality; a clear indication of the wealth of both students.

"Good evening, Julien," Combeferre said pleasantly, putting his blue coat over the back of a chair as he passed he entered their sitting room. "How was your lecture?"

Enjolras looked round from where he was sitting in the bay window, causing Combeferre to blink in surprise. Enjolras's usually perfect and handsome face looked strained and weary; the flush on his cheeks a stark contrast to the unearthly paleness of his skin. His ice-blue eyes were unnaturally distant. His black cravat was lying strewn on the seat beside him, and his shirt was open and loose at the neck. He looked exhausted.

"It went…it went pleasantly," was the obviously false reply, as Enjolras made a visible attempt to pull himself together. "Though I must admit I was glad it was over. I find I cannot concentrate adequately today."

"I am not surprised!" said Combeferre in concern, coming to sit next to his friend. "You look terrible!"

"Thank you, Etienne, I am glad to see you too!" Enjolras replied wryly, his weariness not robbing him of his dry sense of humour.

"You know what I mean!" said Combeferre, a slight frown creasing his brow. "Are you sure you are feeling all right?" He reached out to feel Enjolras's forehead, but his friend jerked away in alarm, blond hair falling into his eyes.

"There is _nothing_ wrong with me, Etienne! You're as bad as Joly!" Enjolras protested weakly, irritably pushing his hair back. "Please don't keep fussing about me, _mon ami_. I am nineteen, for goodness sake! I can take care of myself!"

"I know, Julien," Combeferre replied softly, refusing to be ruffled. "But you are also the most stubborn human being I know; that's why I wanted to check if you are as fine as you claim to be. You're my best friend. I do not 'fuss' to annoy you; it's just because I care."

Tears began to sting at Enjolras's eyes, much to his anger - he usually had much more control over his emotions. He began to blink them back furiously, but it was not enough to hide them from the ever observant Combeferre, who smiled to himself and got to his feet, stretching his long limbs with a languid ease. "Do you want a cup of tea?" he asked airily, swiftly changing the subject. "Or would you rather go down to the Café Voltaire and get something to eat?"

The thought of food made Enjolras's stomach lurch, but he knew better than to reveal that to his friend. That would be all reason Combeferre would need to be taking his temperature and listening to his heart through that new stethoscope he was so pleased with. "I'm not that hungry, Etienne," he said, in what he hoped was a convincing tone, nervously trying to swallow a cough. "I think I shall just have that cup of tea and then get down to my essay."

"For goodness sake Julien!" scolded Combeferre sternly. "You look dead on your feet. Forget the damned essay and go to bed! Do you want me to drag you off that seat and force you through the door? If need be, I'll take your textbooks and sit on them!"

Enjolras looked up and saw a grin spread over Combeferre's face as he prepared them both a cup of tea. He couldn't help but grin back – it was absolutely impossible for him to be angry at Combeferre. There was no use arguing, he knew that! And anyway, the rest would be good for him. Because that was all that was wrong with him! He was tired….nothing more.

"All right, Etienne. I won't argue," he smiled in resignation as they drank their tea. "I suppose I could use the rest. I _am_ tired." He drained his cup and got clumsily to his feet - why was his co-ordination so poor today? He began to push his chair in at the table when he suddenly stopped and laid his hand on Combeferre's shoulder. "I'm sorry I was so snappy, Etienne," he said softly, reverting for a moment back to his normal eloquence. "Please attribute it to tiredness. You're concern is appreciated, my friend, I promise. Your friendship means a lot to me too."

Combeferre gave his trademark gentle smile and understanding shone in his eyes. "Goodnight, Julien," he said. "Get some sleep. You're going to need the energy for tomorrow night." Enjolras smiled and wearily made his way to the room they shared.

Combeferre watched him disappear through the door with a fond exasperation etched all over his face. _You better hope you don't as much as groan in your sleep, Julien!_ he thought to himself. _Because if you do, no amount of glares, or lies about being tired, will keep me from finding out what the matter is! I will not let you suffer anymore!_


	4. The Next Morning

Enjolras wearily coughed into his pillow and groaned at the strain it caused his throat. He guessed it must be about three o'clock now..._wonderful_! He had been unable to stay asleep for more than a couple of hours and this was the third time he'd woken up. He coughed again, and shot a nervous glance at Combeferre, whose bed was against the opposite wall. Luckily, his friend appeared to be sleeping soundly, undisturbed.

With a sigh, Enjolras buried his head further in his pillow and desperately attempted to go back to sleep. It did not take too long before he eventually succumbed to slumber, but even then he tossed and turned, coughing in his sleep, from then until sunrise. He did not wake again until he was disturbed by the sound of a gentle voice calling him:

"Julien! Julien! Come on, wake up! It's after nine!"

"_What_?" Enjolras almost leapt out of bed, frantically pushing his tousled hair out of his eyes. It was not that he had any classes that day, he just simply never slept that late – it was a waste of time that could be put to some better use. "Why did you not wake me Etienne?"

"I thought you needed the extra sleep," Combeferre was standing in front of him, with his arms folded across his chest. "Now get your shirt off!"

"I beg your pardon?" Enjolras froze, his blue eyes going wide with alarm as he watched his friend pick up his blasted stethoscope. Enjolras knew enough about medicine to realise that the invention would do wonders for medicine, but honestly! Combeferre was like a child with a new toy!

"If you think the way you coughed and groaned all night escaped me, _mon ami_, you are sadly mistaken!" Combeferre said, his jaw set stubbornly. "You are not tired, Enjolras, you are ill and it is no use telling me otherwise! I'm a medical student, remember, and I'm your best friend! You cannot lie to me that easily! Now, you are going to let me look at you and if I think you need it, I'll send for a doctor." Much as Combeferre trusted his own abilities, if his friend's health was at risk, he would feel much more at ease letting a qualified doctor tend him, as a practising doctor could provide medication that he himself, as only a student, could not obtain.

Enjolras sighed in defeat and peeled off his shirt. Usually he was the stubborn one, but there was no point in arguing with Combeferre when his eyes were flashing the way they were now! He cast his shirt aside and sat down on the edge of his bed.

"Right, breathe in." Combeferre said solemnly, as Enjolras shivered at the touch of the cold bell of the stethoscope against his skin. To his credit, he did co-operate patiently as Combeferre moved the bell across his chest, listening to his heart and lungs. However, he jumped at a sudden prod to his stomach.

"Ow!" he said, frowning as Combeferre did it again.

"Sorry Julien, I'm almost done. I was just double checking that it wasn't appendicitis. I didn't think it could be, not with that cough anyway, but still – better safe than sorry!"

"Appendicitis?" repeated Enjolras in horror, beginning to get desperate. "Etienne, I promise you, it is just a cold _mon ami_ – nothing more! Please do not worry about me. I am sure I will be fine by tomorrow."

Combeferre bit his bottom lip thoughtfully as he felt Enjolras's forehead, stepping back again a second later to allow his friend to cough. His temperature hadn't been as high as he'd expected it to be. Combeferre saw the blue eyes watching him almost fearfully and sighed. Very well then, they'd have to compromise.

"Julien, I'll take your word for it today," he said earnestly. "But if your temperature rises, or I think you are any worse tomorrow – so help me, I'll send for a doctor whether you like it or not! Clear?"

"All right, all right!" conceded Enjolras with a slight cough and a roll of his eyes.

"And you needn't bother rolling your eyes like that!" smirked Combeferre, cuffing Enjolras around the head affectionately. "Just accept my superior wisdom and get yourself dressed. I'm just off to post my letter to my parents, and then I am going to meet Christophe. We need to compare notes on the functions of the carteroid artery. I'll see you for lunch in the Lemblin at noon, _oui_?"

"_Oui,_" Enjolras got to his feet again and stretched. "See you then."

Combeferre hurried out of the bedroom and put on his jacket, fastening the buttons quickly. He seized his pile of papers and was just on his way out of the door when he was stopped by a hesitant call.

"Etienne?" Enjolras was standing in the bedroom door. He was looking somewhat embarrassed, and a slight blush stained his cheeks.

"What is it?" Combeferre was unused to seeing his normally eloquent friend so lost for words.

"Thank you…for caring," Enjolras replied, the sincerity in his eyes speaking louder than the discomfort in his face.

"It's a good job I do, for you take poor care of yourself!" laughed Combeferre teasingly. "Truly, Julien, I do not know what you'd do without me!" And he ducked out of the door before Enjolras could think of a reply.

Bested, Enjolras smiled to himself and went back to the business of getting dressed.

* * *

It had been decided the day before that Enjolras and Combeferre had would meet Joly and Prouvaire at the Café Lemblin for lunch and, thinking that the fresh air would do him some good, Enjolras decided to take a stroll beforehand. His head felt even heavier than it had done yesterday – though he would have died before admitting that to Combeferre! The last thing he wanted was for his friends to think him weak!

Wearing his warmest jacket, Enjolras set out with no particular destination in mind but, as he walked there most days, habit had made him head for the law school. It was in reasonable proximity the café anyway, so the journey would not take him far out of his way.

His thoughts were firmly fixed on the essay he'd avoided starting last night when he actually passed the grand old building where he and Courfeyrac attended their classes, so he wasn't paying much attention to his surroundings. However, when he heard a pompous voice call his name, he was snapped straight out of his musings and his first instinct was to run as fast as he could in the other direction.

Pierre Leroux, one of his classmates was heading straight for him, an ignorant smile on his arrogant face. He was one of the few men in Paris whom Enjolras really despised. He made Grantaire's drunken speeches sound like Voltaire in comparison. Not that Leroux was a drunkard – he was just an idiot!

_Oh, good God!_ thought Enjolras sarcastically, bursting into a fit of coughing again. _Just what I need – this fool on top of a sore throat and a fuzzy head! Give me strength!_

"Ah, Julien old chap!" called Leroux eagerly, bustling up with the practised air of one who was incredibly busy. "How are you? What did you make of old Artoire yesterday? You know, I was just saying to Henri…"

Enjolras sighed and resigned himself to his fate.

* * *

So it was that Enjolras walked into the Café Lemblin ten minutes late with his eyes flashing like lightening and an angry flush on his face. He headed over to where his three friends were sitting at their usual table and joined them, sitting down next Joly, giving his order to the waitress that Courfeyrac was currently keen on.

"Bonjour Enjolras!" beamed Prouvaire, full of good nature as usual. "You are looking better."

"I'm feeling better, thank you Jehan." Enjolras lied, forcing a smile on his face. "Forgive me for being late, _mes amis_. I ran into Pierre Leroux."

Combeferre laughed heartily at that, while Joly shook his head in sympathy. Prouvaire, meanwhile, looked confused.

"Who?"

"A classmate of mine." Enjolras explained, his disgust for the man in question very plain. "Though how an idiot like that managed to end up at studying the law is beyond my comprehension! He makes less sense than Grantaire does after a bottle of absinthe!"

"I have a very simple answer to that, _mon ami_," said Joly wryly. "His father can pay the tuition. He's the Vicomte de something or other…of course they won't deny his son entry to the law school."

"The system is all wrong!" said Enjolras heatedly, his colour rising again. "He will never make a lawyer! They are simply wasting a place which could have been given to someone more deserving. When I think of poor Feuilly, who's taught himself to read, taught himself to write and has an intelligent and considerate contribution to make to the world, having to scrounge a living making fans when he could be so much more if only he had the money! It makes my blood boil! It's so unjust! I wish we could do something about it!" He began coughing again, this time a lot more violently than he had before.

"Calm down, Julien!" said Joly anxiously, though subconsciously leaning away from his coughing friend, desirous of avoiding germs. "Come on, take a deep breath."

"I wholeheartedly agree with you, my friend," said Combeferre, as their soup arrived. "The world is unjust. Feuilly would do well if only he had the money for the education. The privileged have such an unfair advantage!"

"Let's not talk of that right now," said Prouvaire wisely. "The purpose of the meeting tonight is for us all to have a night to relax, but if we keep talking about the injustice of life, we shall all end up in a fury. Let's put it off until after tonight."

"Quite right, Jehan, as always," smiled Combeferre, as Prouvaire smiled shyly. The young medical student then turned his attention to Enjolras, worried about the violence of his earlier coughing fit. However, he was satisfied to see that at least his friend was eating.

"Just before we change the subject," broke in Joly. "The talk of money has reminded me – Julien, will you please try to make LeClair see reason tonight? He is pretty much starving himself to pay his rent, and he sold his locket the other day – you know that that was all he had left to remind him of his parents. Etienne and I have both told him he can borrow, but he's as stubborn as you are and he is too proud to accept! Please talk to him. He respects you; you might change his mind."

"All right," said Enjolras, refusing to be offended at the comment on his stubborn nature. "I'll have a word with him. I hate to think of him living in poverty when he deserves so much better!"

"Good," smiled Prouvaire, his green eyes shining. "With that sorted, we can look forward to an enjoyable night!"


	5. LeClair Is Stubborn And Apollo Falls

Claude LeClair was feeling absolutely awful. He had been repeatedly sick all through the night, and had vomited almost every hour since he had risen in the morning. He felt hot and fuzzy-headed, and his limbs felt like they were full of lead.

"God, there can't be anything left to come up!" he groaned to himself, as he retched again and ducked over the basin. Raising his head, he gulped down another glass of water and dried his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt.

At the moment, LeClair wanted nothing more than to go back to bed and sleep the rest of the day away. But he had agreed to go to the Café Musain this evening. If he failed to turn up, it would only result in Combeferre and Joly coming round to call on him tomorrow. And if they realised how awful he felt, they would insist on sending for a doctor…

And he _couldn't_ afford a doctor! He had been short on this week's rent payment, though the situation had been solved by his pawning of the locket which had belonged to his mother. And he stoutly refused to sell his medical equipment. If he consulted a doctor, he would have no way of paying his fee other than with his rent money. Of course, Madame Dupont always said he could pay her a week late, and Joly and Combeferre had both offered to lend him the money until he could pay them back, and it _was_ tempting to take up either offer...

But no! LeClair did not have much in life, but he had his pride. He wanted to get through these struggles on his own, get through university on his own, get through life on his own. His friends' generosity was touching, but he did not want to be indebted to anyone at any time!

Which was why LeClair was determined to turn up at the Café Musain and spend the night with the other Amis. He would not be drinking wine, for neither his pocket nor his stomach would stand that. He would just have put on an act of cheerfulness and health. And he would have to hope they all fell for it!

He gave a weary sigh, and began to put his waistcoat on.

* * *

"Julien, _mon ami_, may I ask a favour?" asked Courfeyrac in the sweetest voice he could manage, as he walked into the café with Prouvaire that night, to find Enjolras and Combeferre already seated at a table, deep in conversation.

"I haven't got my essay notes with me, Jerôme," said Enjolras dryly.

"How did you guess?" grinned Courfeyrac. "May I borrow them tomorrow? Please?"

"All right," Enjolras nodded. "But you'll never get through the final examinations if you do not do _some_ of the coursework yourself!"

"Why break with tradition?" Prouvaire laughed as he took a seat. "He'd hardly be the Courfeyrac we all know and despair of if he suddenly started acting responsibly!"

"Hey!" Courfeyrac pouted theatrically as the others laughed, before jumping at the sound of a crash on the stairs.

"Evening,Lucien!" called Combeferre, without even looking up and, sure enough, a moment later, a dazed looking L'Aigle came into the room, rubbing his elbow.

"_Bonjour mes amis!"_ he smiled ruefully, turning to frown at the laughing Joly, Feuilly and Bahorel who followed him inside. Grantaire appeared at the same moment – sober for once, but the night was young.

"Well, it would hardly be a proper gathering without our dear Bossuet making his proper entrance of falling down the stairs!" said Bahorel gleefully. "So what were you talking about before our er…dramatic appearance?"

"The unjustness of life in Paris for the underprivileged," said Combeferre, as the others took their seats.

"Well, let's not continue in that vein," said Prouvaire again, with his usual quiet earnestness. "It'll only get everyone upset, and we are supposed to be enjoying ourselves tonight. Let's not dwell on it – the darkness that is injustice will be banished by the sunrise of progression."

"Well said, Jehan," agreed the quiet Feuilly. "Put darker subjects aside for tonight, _mes amis_. We have all our lives to be angry at the government."

"And we'll probably have to spend a good deal of our lives with the government being angry at us!" called a voice in the doorway, as LeClair came into the room.

"Good evening, Claude!" called Joly, as nine welcoming smiles turned towards the new arrival. "I almost thought you weren't going to turn up."

"When have I ever missed a gathering of the _Amis de L'ABC, _Christophe?" asked LeClair smiling as he sat down, blinking a little too hard against the dizziness that threatened to take him. "Forgive me for being late, my friends. I was distracted on my way here." 'Distracted' was a euphemism for being sick again, but his stomach finally felt a little more settled and he hoped to make it through the evening without further event.

"Oh well, you are here now!" said Joly cheerfully, wondering if LeClair seemed a little flushed, but then dismissed the idea. It had probably been the nippy air and his hurrying to get to the cafe!

"And since all ten Amis are accounted for, let us bring out the wine," said Bahorel with a grin, tossing his jacket over the back of a chair and digging some money out of his pocket.

"Not for me, Sebastien. Just water tonight," said LeClair, with a pleading look at Joly and Combeferre, who both loyally remained silent.

Enjolras noted the look and made a mental note to have a word with LeClair as soon as the others were tipsy enough to be distracted. Which, he realised, could easily be within the next hour…

* * *

Sure enough, an hour and a half later, several tongues were very much loosened by alcohol; Bahorel was enthusiastically telling an exceptionally vulgar joke that had Grantaire roaring with laughter, Courfeyrac giggling like a schoolboy and Prouvaire blushing to the very roots of his hair. Meanwhile, a mischievous L'Aigle and Feuilly were trying to convince an embarrassed Joly that the waitress was giving him suggestive looks.

Enjolras, Combeferre and LeClair, the only ones still sober, were in the middle of a light hearted debate on military tactics. LeClair and Enjolras were both doing a fine job of keeping their illnesses carefully hidden; though LeClair still looked rather flushed and Enjolras exceedingly pale. They were both having to clear their throats more often than usual too, to hide the fact that they wanted to cough.

The alcohol made the young men talk louder than normal, all desperate to be heard, and so three separate conversations were mixing so fast that, had an outsider walked into the midst of the gathering, they would not have had a clue what was going on:

"You have to hand it to him, for all his brutality, Buonaparte was a military genius!"

"And so the doctor says to him, stick it up your…"

"Lucien, she is _not_ winking at me!"

"In terms of manoeuvres warfare, certainly, but he was completely out-smarted at Waterloo!"

"Christophe you're blushing, _mon ami_!"

"Cover Jehan's ears, Jerôme! This may be too lewd for his young, delicate mind!"

"Wellington was certainly a gifted tactician, I grant you that, Etienne."

"I'm the same age as Julien! You don't call him young and delicate!"

"I loves the girls and I loves good wine!"

"I think you're drunk!"

As time went by, their voices grew even louder and the room got even warmer. Enjolras was feeling uncommonly hot. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and blinked his eyes quickly to keep them in focus. He refused to lose face before his friends; even if it meant he'd have to leave early, he would still not admit to this irritating bug!

"You know," he began to tell Combeferre. "I think the battle of Talevera was…"

Combeferre never got to hear what Enjolras thought of Talevera, for his friend's eyes suddenly rolled back and he fell insensible and wheezing on the floor, his blond hair falling across his face. The room was deadly silent for a moment, and then was filled with laughter.

"He's drunk!" crowed Grantaire, who was himself well on the way to inebriation. "Finally, our pompous Apollo has become human!"

"I always said he'd never have a head for drink!" giggled Courfeyrac, who was very tipsy. "He's only had two glasses and he's on the floor."

Joly and LeClair got to their feet in concern when they saw how Combeferre flew to Enjolras's side; kneeling beside him, tearing the cravat from his neck and loosening his shirt collar. He pushed the damp blond hair aside with urgency.

"Julien! Breathe for Christ's sake!" he cried in a panicked voice, noticing in horror the sheen of sweat that covered his friend's face, and the struggle he seemed to be having to get air.

LeClair fought the urge to retch. _Not now! Please, please not now!_ he thought desperately, gripping the table top for support.

"Calm down, Etienne!" laughed Bahorel, as Combeferre pressed his hand to Enjolras's forehead. "He'll be all right come morning. He just needs to sleep it off!"

"For God's sake!" Combeferre exploded, tears threatening in his eyes, as Joly hurried to his side in alarm. "He's not drunk can't you see? He's ill! He's very ill…he's burning!"

And the room went silent again, horror written upon every face.


	6. Apollo CAN'T Die!

"This…this is a joke, right?" asked Courfeyrac nervously, trying to smile and failing miserably. "I mean, it's _Enjolras_! He can't be ill. He seemed fine earlier!"

"I knew he was ill!" Combeferre's voice was shaking. "But I didn't send for a doctor! He told me it was just a cold and I said I'd let him be for today! How could I have been so easily persuaded? I _knew_ it was more serious!"

"Hey, come on, Etienne. Don't be so hard on yourself! You couldn't have known that this would happen." Joly knelt beside him and laid his hand on Enjolras's burning forehead. "God almighty, his temperature is searing!"

"It wasn't this high earlier, Christophe!" pleaded Combeferre desperately. "You know I'd never have let him leave our rooms if it was!"

"We know that, _mon ami_," LeClair put a steady hand on Combeferre's shoulder, secretly glad that the sudden whiteness of his face would be attributed to the surprise of this, and not to his own concealed illness.

"I'll have to take him home," said Combeferre, distress written all over his gentle face, as he began to pull his friend into a sitting position.

"I'll fetch a doctor," said Joly calmly. "I'll meet you there."

"I'll carry him, Etienne," said Grantaire quietly, coming to stand beside him. "I'm heavier than you are. It would be easier."

Combeferre looked up in shock. Apparently a way had finally been found to make the group sceptic and the unruly Courfeyrac sober up – get Julien to faint and scare them to death. It might have been funny, had it not been so deadly serious.

"All right, Luc," Combeferre replied, standing aside as Grantaire easily lifted Enjolras's slender body off the ground.

"I think the rest of us should call it a night and head home, _mes amis,_" said Bahorel, also suddenly uncharacteristically solemn. "There's no sense in us all traipsing back to Etienne's appartment and no one will enjoy themselves knowing that Julien is lying unconscious. Etienne, may we call tomorrow and see how he is?"

"Of course, thank you Sebastien," said Combeferre weakly, getting to his feet. "Goodnight." Bahorel, Feuilly and L'Aigle departed sadly, casting worried glances at the unconscious young man in Grantaire's arms.

"I will head off too, Etienne," said LeClair quietly, laying a reassuring hand on Combeferre's arm. It went against all his instincts to leave now – he would have much rather accompanied his friends home, but he felt like he was going to be sick any moment and did not want Combeferre and the others to worry any more than they currently were. "Don't worry about Julien; he'll be fine. He's tougher than any of the rest of us!"

"I'm sure you're right, Claude. Goodnight." replied Combeferre, trying to smile. His fellow medical student followed the others out of the door, leaving only Combeferre, Prouvaire, Courfeyrac (who lived in the same building as Enjolras and Combeferre did) and Grantaire in the room.

"Come on then," said Grantaire. "Christophe and the doctor will be there before us."

Grantaire made his way out of the door, carefully carrying his unconscious hero, while the others followed, Prouvaire putting a comforting arm around the distraught Combeferre's shoulders.

"You can't blame yourself, Etienne," he whispered. "You know what he's like; if he decided he was fine, there was no way you could have persuaded him to send for a doctor."

"But _I _could have sent for one!" said Combeferre unhappily, but at an unusually stern look from the meek young poet, he gave a sigh of resignation. "I suppose you're right, Jehan. He is too stubborn for his own good!"

"I know," said Jehan. "But he wouldn't be our 'fearless leader' if he wasn't!"

"I suppose not," Combeferre smiled ruefully. "But if he ever lies to me like this again, God have mercy on him – because I will not!" Prouvaire gave a small laugh and hurried to open the door for Grantaire as they reached the building where their apartments were.

They negotiated the stairs slowly and waited while Combeferre opened the front door. Once inside, Prouvaire wisely went to make everyone a cup of tea, while Grantaire carried Enjolras through to his bed, where Combeferre stripped him down to his shirt and pulled the covers up over him.

"Julien! Come on, Julien, wake up!" he pleaded. "Just let me know you're conscious, _mon ami_! Come on!" It was no use; Enjolras was as still and quiet as the statue Grantaire was always comparing him to.

"He is going to be all right, isn't he?" asked Grantaire, and Combeferre looked up to see genuine fear in the dark-haired sceptic's eyes. "I mean, it isn't serious, is it?"

"I hope not," said Combeferre. "Luc, I'd be lost without him! We all would!"

"I know!" replied Grantaire, gravelly. "I realise that I tease him a lot, but I don't mean it disrespectfully, Etienne. I'd do anything for him, I swear!"

"He knows, Luc," Combeferre was touched by this sudden show of loyalty. "He does know! Jerôme will you stop darting about like a headless chicken! You are making me even more nervous!" This last remark was thrown at the now highly-strung Courfeyrac who was pacing back and forth in all directions with a stricken look on his face.

"What?" Courfeyrac looked up, not having heard a word other than his name. "Oh. Sorry." He forced himself to stand still, leaning on the doorframe.

"You know Jerôme, the next time you and Grantaire decide to drive Enjolras to distraction between you, I am going to describe to him the looks of panic on your faces when Etienne told everyone he was sick!" came the dry comment from Joly as he entered the room with an elderly doctor.

"Go to the devil, Joly!" said Courfeyrac snarkily, as Combeferre got up to greet the doctor. He was glad to see that Joly had fetched Monsieur de Lassan, who had been their lecturer several times and was on friendly terms with them both.

"_Bon soir, Monsieur,_" he greeted him warmly. "I'm so grateful to you for coming."

"Not at all," replied Doctor Lassan with a paternal smile. "I'm always glad to be able to help two of my best students. "It is your friend Enjolras you'd like me to look at, yes?"

"Yes," Combeferre gestured to the unconscious young man in the bed, beginning to get worked up again. "He coughed all night, then he fainted dead away, and his temperature is shockingly high!"

"Hmm. Sounds like the influenza to me," Doctor Lassan rummaged in his bag and went to kneel beside his patient. He began to listen to Enjolras's chest and count his pulse. "There is a lot of it going around, you know."

"We _know_!" yelled the exasperated Courfeyrac. "All we need to know is whether Julien is going to be all right or not!"

Lassan smiled to himself and this interruption and watched in amusement as Joly shepherded Courfeyrac and Grantaire into the care of the steady Jean Prouvaire in the sitting room, closing the door behind them.

"It's…strange," Joly muttered sadly as he returned, coming to stand beside Combeferre. "However much we laugh at Grantaire for all his 'Mighty Apollo' nonsense, we all really believe that Julien is indestructible, don't we?"

"I know," Combeferre choked, tears welling up in his eyes again. "And it scares me too death seeing him like this, Christophe. He's my best friend; he's closer than a brother to me! I don't know what I'll do if he…if he..." The young medical student bit back a sob.

Joly drew Combeferre into a fraternal, comforting embrace, while the Doctor looked up from his examination. "Don't fret so much, Etienne, my lad." he said gently, seeing the pure fear and worry in Combeferre's dark brown eyes. "It _is_ the influenza, I'm afraid, and it's developed into a fever – but he seems a strong young man. He should recover."

"_Should_?" the undertone of panic was noticeable in Joly's voice.

"One never really can tell with illnesses like these, you two should know that." said Doctor de Lassan. "It can kill, or the patient can recover completely. From my experience, if the patient is strong and well tended, they have a very good chance of recovery - I can see your friend seems otherwise strong and healthy and, what with all the panic I've witnessed regarding his health, will be very attentively nursed. He should do just fine."

Joly sighed in relief and slipped out of the room, while the Doctor began instructing Combeferre on how to break the fever and gave him a bottle of medicine to dose Enjolras with. He found a forlorn Prouvaire and a white-faced Grantaire sitting quietly on the settee, while Courfeyrac had resumed his pacing.

"What's the matter with him?" came three voices at once, as soon as they set eyes on Joly.

The young hypochondriac sighed; he'd best be honest. "He's got the influenza," he said calmly. "And it has developed into a fever…"

"But you can _die_ from that." Courfeyrac interrupted, horrified.

"I know, Jerôme!"

"But Julien can't die!" yelled Courfeyrac angrily. "He's the dependable one! He's the one who's supposed to…"

"Let him finish, Jerôme!" said Prouvaire gently. "Go on, Christophe."

"As I was saying, he's got a bad fever, and yes, it can kill in some cases." continued Joly. "But Julien is strong and the doctor says he should pull through. Even if he has to stay alive by sheer determination, Julien will get by. He has enough stubbornness for two!"

"I hope so!" said Courfeyrac despondently. "I don't want him to die thinking I'm an idiot! I want to prove I'm better than I act. I want him to know that I'd follow him anywhere."

"And you can prove that to him when he wakes up!" said Prouvaire, his voice suddenly becoming less delicate, deliberately using 'when' and not 'if'. "Let us be optimistic, my friends. Julien has never let us down before."

"Enjolras won't give up, said Grantaire determinedly. "He _can't_ give up!"

* * *

Doctor de Lassan departed soon after, and the five young men sat nervously in the sitting room, drinking the last of the tea before Courfeyrac, Prouvaire, Joly and Grantaire left too.

"I'm going to miss the lecture tomorrow, Christophe," said Combeferre bleakly as they stood in the doorway. "All things considered, I'd rather stay here in case Julien wakes up. It's the last one of the week, so it's nothing should not be of paramount importance."

"I'll lend you my notes afterwards," promised Joly. "In the meantime, don't panic too much, Etienne. He'll be fine, you'll see."

"I hope so. Thank you for all your help, my friends," replied Combeferre. "It meant a lot to me."

"Don't mention it Etienne." Prouvaire smiled and patted him on the shoulder. "We all think highly of Julien and we were all happy to help. We'll come and see how he is tomorrow, all right?" Combeferre nodded, as Prouvaire turned to Joly and Grantaire.

"You two are more than welcome to stay with Courfeyrac and I tonight. It will save you wandering home alone so late." Joly and Grantaire accepted the offer gratefully and they all went down the stairs together, calling goodnight to Combeferre.

"Goodnight, my friends," Combeferre replied, before shutting the door and letting the tears he had been fighting all evening flow free at last.

He was a medical student – he knew how deadly this illness could be, regardless of the strength of the patient. Influenza was a killer, and fever was even more deadly. The severity of Enjolras's situation was making him feel sick with worry, despite the doctor's optimistic predictions.

He went back through to the bedroom and sat on the edge of Enjolras's bed, looking at his lifeless best friend with tear-filled eyes.

"You better pull through this, Julien!" he said unsteadily, his voice shaking. "I'll never get by without you!"


	7. It's All So Unjust!

**Bonjour once again, mes amis. I'm writing this while going totally crazy with happiness, 'cause I just found out that I've been accepted into University. Attribute any inconsitancies to my inability to think straight at the moment, lol.**

**Thanks once more for all the great reviews. :-D**

**Disclaimer: Only LeClair is mine**

**Chapter 7 - It's All So Unjust!**

When LeClair departed from the Café Musain, he'd darted round the corner, his stomach heaving, and vomited all over the cobbles. He gripped a nearby doorframe in a desperate bid to stay upright, glad that no one else could see him.He gasped and wheezed, choking on his own ragged breaths and ferventlytried to keep from retching again. He shook his floppy hair from his eyes and attempted to regain some composure.

He felt cruel for feeling this way, but he couldn't help but be thoroughly grateful for Enjolras fainting when he did – there would have been no other time he'd have been able to vacate the café so quickly, without an explanation being wrung from him by his ever-alert friends. And he certainly could not have been sick in front of them!

Poor Julien – LeClair was pretty sure he was suffering from the influenza, especially when they'd talked about his temperature in such a fashion. But still, he'd have Etienne to nurse him, and it would be no wound to either of their purses to send for a doctor. That was the benefit of a wealthy family.

The stubborn LeClair had at last stopped denying the fact that he too was ill. Well – having just vomited all over the street without having had a sip of alcohol didn't leave much room for argument, did it?

No, he was ill…he'd admit that much. But even so, there was no way on earth that he was going to send for a doctor, or reveal his illness to any of the other amis – which would simply be a less direct way of sending for medical assistance. By selling his tie pin and cufflinks on the way to the café, he'd secured enough to pay his rent to Madame Dupont; though only just. Sending for a doctor would make paying the rent impossible.

And he would not end up in debt! He just _wouldn't_!

'You could always ask one of your friends to help you.' said the reasonable, sensible Combeferre-like voice in the back of his head.

"No!" he gasped out loud, straightening up and staggering on his way. "I will not treat my friends as money-banks! I respect them too much. And I will _not_ have them pitying their penniless friend who cannot even afford to keep himself in a hovel! _Mon Dieu_, life is so bloody unjust! I'm trying to better myself to cure others of disease, and I can't even afford to help myself!"

By the time he had got to the end of this feverish, fervent and agitated speech, Claude LeClair once more found himself at the door to his dismal lodgings. He choked down the bile that he felt rising in his throat and made his way inside.

"_Bonjour_ Claude dear, I'll just…Heavens above!" Madame Dupont gaped at his bloodless countenance in horror. "You look awful, love! Should I send for a doctor?"

"_No_!" LeClair said, with such vehemence that she blinked at him in surprise. "Forgive my rudeness, Madame, I have something of a headache and it is playing havoc with my temperament. Please, do not worry about me. I have just eaten something that does not agree with me. It is nothing more."

"If you say so, love." his landlady replied, regaining her usual cheerfulness - the boy was a medical student; he knew what he was talking about. "I'll get you a candle if you want to turn in early."

"I would appreciate that, Madame. _Merci_." Claude thankfully made his escape into his sorry bedroom and frantically grabbed at the basin by his bed, emptying what was left in his stomach into it.

'God, it's hot in here!' he thought, divesting himself of his jacket and kicking off his shoes. He rubbed the perspiration from his face and smoothed back his now rather damp chestnut hair. When Madame Dupont brought the candle, he rushed to the door to take it, not wanting her to see the evidence of his true condition, for she would be too motherly to overlook it. Though her home was lacking in comfort due to her own poverty, she more than made up for it in kindness.

LeClair stripped off his shabby clothes and got into bed, resting his aching head on the lumpy pillows, hoping that this prostrate position would settle his churning stomach.

It was rather ironic, he thought as he lay there, but now he was really experiencing the injustice that Enjolras so passionately talked of. He was pretty certain – by the application of his own medical knowledge – that he and Julien were suffering from exactly the same illness. They were both hard working, serious students who did not overindulge themselves in alcohol or anything else – and yet at this moment, it would be certain that Julien would be being tended by a competent doctor, while LeClair lay sweating and queasy in a room barely fit for habitation, unable to send for a doctor because doing so would cost every penny of his rent money at the very least. And all this injustice just because Julien's father was wealthy and titled (though Julien was not proud of this) while LeClair's father had been nothing of consequence when he was alive.

_To sleep – perchance to dream…_

The words of that English playwright whom Prouvaire so admired – damn it what _was_ the man's name? – sprang unbidden to LeClair's mind.

Claude LeClair shut his eyes with a world-weary sigh and another dry retch. Sleep…that sounded like a good idea. And he would dream. He'd dream of the New France which Enjolras envisioned…_Liberté…Egalité…_ There would be no bitter injustice there!

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

The next morning, as might be imagined, the anxious Combeferre was by Enjolras's bed as soon as he woke up. His friend's temperature had not dropped in the slightest, but he seemed to be showing some signs of life, at least – he was stirring.

To Combeferre's utter amazement, Julien tried to get out of bed. Was he _still_ trying to pretend he was all right? Honestly, the stubborn boy was absolutely impossible!

"Julien Enjolras, get back into bed right now!" he said in the sternest voice he could muster.

"I feel so…I'm going to be sick." Enjolras groaned very indistinctly, clutching at his stomach.

Combeferre hurried ran for a bowl and held it before his friend's chest, just in time, as Enjolras was violently sick. His blond hair was in disarray, plastered to his neck and forehead; while his shirt stuck to him like a second skin.

Combeferre got him back into bed again, and laid his hand on the clammy forehead. Enjolras's temperature was still scarily high.

"Do you feel any worse, Julien?" he asked urgently, as he reached for the medicine that Doctor Lassan had given him. He met the eyes of his friend and swallowed in dread.

Julien's knowledgeable, alert blue eyes were out of focus and glazed as he muttered a faint remark, which seemed to be about Robespierre and Napoleon. Evidently, he had no idea where he was. He was completely lost to a fever.

Combeferre gave him a dose of medicine and put a cool, damp flannel onto his forehead, before settling at his friend's bedside with a novel, ready to act if need be.

The rest of the morning passed peacefully enough. Joly called as soon as he left Courfeyrac's flat, making Combeferre swear to send for him if he needed help, and promising that he would return in the evening to let his friend have a bit of rest.

Both Courfeyrac and Grantaire, despite the fact that they usually made it their mission between them to try and make Enjolras lose his temper within ten minutes of entering the café, popped their heads round the door regularly to see if there was any change, genuine worry visible in both faces.

Combeferre knew that Enjolras would be exceptionally touched if he knew how much concern all his friends were showing for his wellbeing. It was no secret that Grantaire practically worshipped the ground he walked on, but Combeferre knew that his seemingly confident friend sometimes worried about what the others thought of him and his ideals. This display of loyalty from so many of the group – all of whom shared an exceedingly strong bond of friendship – left no doubt of the fact that Enjolras was highly respected by each and every one of them and regarded as not just a leader; but as a friend.

Prouvaire came by around lunchtime, when his morning lecture was over and sat conversing with Combeferre with some time.

They were in the middle of a discussion on the new production at the opera house when Enjolras, who had been lying quietly dozing for the past hour and a half, suddenly began tossing and turning. This gave way to a wrenching fit of coughing and he extended his hand into the air above him, calling out desperately:

"Nicolas! Nicolas! Come out of the trees! You'll get lost – only René knows the path! Papa is calling for you. You've got to go back to the house!"

As his hand closed around nothing, Enjolras's movements became more violent and he called out 'Nicolas' over and over again.

Prouvaire watched on in distress, as Combeferre leapt up and rushed to the bedside. He clutched the hand that Enjolras had extended with his own, and spoke to his friend in a gentle, reassuring voice. He felt so low, pretending to be the person his friend so fervently called for, but he could see no other way to calm him.

"Ssssh. It's all right _petit frère_, I'm here. I'm here, Julien. I'll come back to the house. Ssssh."

"Who is Nicolas?" asked Prouvaire, chewing his bottom lip, as Enjolras lay back again, calmed, closing his eyes as Combeferre smoothed back his hair.

"I feel so cruel, doing this to him." said Combeferre, blinking back tears. "Nicolas was his older brother – the same age as me. We used to play together, the three of us, all the time when we were children. Our family estates were next to each other, you see. We grew up together, and you'd never believe the mischief the three of us got into. Anyway, when Julien was eleven and Nicolas and I were fourteen, Nicolas came down with pneumonia. He fought it for about a week, but eventually he slipped away. Julien was heartbroken. He hero-worshipped his brother, and I don't think he's ever really gotten over the loss – that was when he became so solemn. That's why I feel so cruel pretending to be his brother, but I could see no other way to calm him!"

"You did the right thing, Etienne." replied Prouvaire in his gentle voice. "He could have hurt himself if he'd kept on jerking about like that."

"The doctor thinks that his fever should break in a couple of days." relied Combeferre desolately, gently releasing his hand from Julien's panicked grip. "I hope it does. I can't stand to see him like this Jehan. He's stronger than any of the rest of us. He doesn't deserve this."

"Of course he doesn't." Prouvaire replied. "But it often is so; the most honourable and virtuous are struck with misfortunes more deserved by those deviants who seem to have a stream of endless luck. It is simply the injustice of life, _non_?"

"You're right once again, my friend." sighed Combeferre. "But I will be overjoyed to see him back to his own self; talking about politics, joking about my somewhat varied wardrobe…"

"Scolding Courfeyrac and reprimanding Grantaire!" finished Prouvaire with a grin. "And he soon will be, Etienne. He soon will be."

Feuilly and Bahorel looked in on their way home and Joly came past in the evening, giving Combeferre some time to himself, but Enjolras lay in bed, wandering in some far off fantasy, oblivious to all those around him.

It did not matter though, because a recovery was expected by the doctor, and therefore a recovery the Amis of the ABC would hope for. As Feuilly remarked to Bahorel as they traipsed home;

"When has Julien ever backed down from a challenge?"

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

The day had not been pleasant for poor LeClair. He was repeatedly and horrendously sick, he had shivered for most of the time and his head wasa constant source of agony.

However, the real horror did not come until dusk. He was coughing again, the wheezes tearing at his throat, when he reached for his handkerchief and spat a foul-tasting mouthful of stuff onto it. Then he recoiled.

"No! Please God, no!"

As realisation sunk in, he blinked in horror, watching as the liquid seeped through the thin fabric and onto his fingers.

There was no denying it…it was blood!

**Poor LeClair, life is so unjust! And will Enjy make that recovery? To be continued...**


	8. Recovery and Acceptance

Enjolras was still wandering in a fever the following day and the day after that, in Combeferre's watchful care. He spoke often, usually nonsense about history and literature, and Combeferre soothed him, answering as best he could. However, his temperature was gradually getting lower, much to Combeferre and Joly's relief.

Joly, who had come by with the notes he had promised, practically had to drag Combeferre away from Enjolras's bedside to make him sleep and eat. The sensitive young doctor was frantic with worry, though that was understandable.

"He's doing alright, Etienne. The fever's breaking!" said Joly gently, laying his hand on Combeferre's shoulder at lunchtime (it was Sunday and there were no classes). "Come on, get some sleep. I'll sit with him for a couple of hours."

"I really shouldn't…" began Combeferre but Joly frowned.

"Get some sleep, _mon ami_, or I will hit you over the head with a textbook!" he said, a teasing frown on his face, but an edge of warning there. "Go on, I'll make sure he's all right."

Combeferre lay down on top of his bed and was asleep in minutes, thoroughly worn out by his worry. Joly took up his place at Enjolras's bedside, when the sleeping blond turned over suddenly and opened his eyes.

"Bonaparte?" he asked quietly. Still fevered then.

"No, no. It's just me, Julien. It's just Christophe," Joly soothed him hastily, gently stroking his hair. "It's all right, _mon ami_, ssssh. Go back to sleep."

"I think it's going to snow," said Enjolras dreamily, rolling over and closing his eyes again. Joly smiled and put a damp cloth on his head.

"If you say so, Julien," he said gently. "Rest now."

"I like snow!"

"I'm sure you do," Joly chuckled. "Now hush!"

Enjolras dropped back into a slumber and the afternoon passed quite peacefully. As soon as he woke up, Combeferre resumed his vigil, refusing to leave his friend again. Prouvaire and Courfeyrac came up in the evening and sat with the two medical students in companionable peace as they all worked through their coursework together.

"Anyone seen Claude today?" asked Combeferre suddenly. "He did say he was going to come up and see how Julien was doing but I haven't heard from him these last few days."

"Now that you mention it, I haven't seen him since Wednesday at the Musain," said Courfeyrac. "But mind you, we haven't had any more meetings this week since Julien's been ill, so I haven't really had the opportunity to see him anyway."

"I reckon he's taken on a night job again," said Joly dryly, raising his eyebrows. "He did that the last time he was short on money, remember? He drove himself to exhaustion because he was too proud to ask for help. He told Etienne and I on Tuesday that he was struggling to find his rent money, but he wouldn't borrow."

"Stubborn fool!" Prouvaire shook his head. "So do you think that's why he hasn't been round? Because he's taken an extra job?"

"I expect so. It's just like him and he did it before!" said Joly, sounding exasperated. "It was almost a month before we realised what he was doing. What a tiresome, stubborn bunch of friends I have! One too proud to admit he's short on money, another too proud to admit he's ill…"

"And a hypochondriac doctor who likes to 'big-brother' everyone!" grinned Courfeyrac, ducking as a book was hurled at him. "What are you going to do to Claude, scold him make him stand in the corner?"

"Be serious, Jerôme!" sighed Joly in exasperation. "I tell you one thing, he has got one day to show his face, or I am going round to his lodgings and he's going to accept my help whether he likes it or not!"

"The same goes for me," said Combeferre. "He really is going to have to swallow some of that pride and allow us to help him, until he has some better luck. Jerôme, you do realize that the task of doing an essay involves writing words, don't you?"

"I usually copy Julien's," confessed Courfeyrac, with no shame at all, looking down at the blank piece of paper in front of him. "Why did he have to get ill when we have a lot of coursework?"

"Poetic justice, _mon ami_?" suggested Prouvaire mischievously.

"You're supposed to be on my side, Jehan!" said the indignant Courfeyrac and the table erupted with laughter again.

Suddenly, there came the sound of loud coughing from the bedroom. Combeferre was on his feet in an instant and ran through the door to, pale with anxiety. However, anxiety turned to utter joy when he found two blue eyes fixed clearly on his face.

"Etienne?"

The fever had finally broken! Julien Enjolras was lying flushed and groggy in bed, but cleary wide awake and _compos mentis_.

It took extreme self control from Combeferre not to run to him and throw his arms around him, then wallop him round the head for attempting to hide his illness. "Julien, thank God you're all right!" he said weakly, sitting down on the bed and clutching his friends hand as he sat up in bed. "You had me _so_ worried!"

"What happened? I don't remember much apart from talking about Bonaparte last night."

"Julien, that was Wednesday night. This is Sunday evening now. You've been delirious for days. You've had the influenza and a fever. You passed out in the Musain and Grantaire carried you back here."

"I did? What must they think of me?" groaned Enjolras in embarrassment.

"They thought the same as I did!" said Combeferre sternly. "How could the boy be so utterly stupid as to hide the severity of his illness from all those friends who think the world of him? No one thinks less of you Julien; everyone was terrified. I've never seen Luc and Jehan look so scared and as for Jerôme – he was dotting about the room like a mad hen until the doctor arrived! There's not one of them who hasn't been round to see how you were doing every day." He tactfully left LeClair out at the moment, not wanting to get his friend worked up on another rant on the injustice of Claude's situation.

"I was that bad?" asked Enjolras in surprise.

"You were that bad, Julien!" Combeferre confirmed frowning, growing even more stern. "And let me warn you; if you ever lie to me, or scare me like that again, I am going to make you one very, very sorry individual! Damn it, you're my best friend! I love you like a brother. It would have finished me if I'd lost you."

"I'm sorry Etienne," Enjolras said quietly. "You are like a brother to me too. You're the best friend I've ever had." He extended his arms, offering a hug, which Combeferre accepted, embracing his friend fiercely, letting his tears of relief flow unnoticed into the golden hair.

"Etienne?" Enjolras suddenly pulled back. "I was…you're crying!"

"Of course I'm crying, you dunce!" Combeferre laughed through his tears. "You scared me out of my wits, you stubborn hothead, and I thought you were going to die!"

"I…I am sorry. Truly I am," Enjolras hugged his friend again, touched deeply by Combeferre's tears.

"What were you going to say?" asked Combeferre when they parted again.

"I…I didn't say anything stupid while I was delirious, did I?" asked Julien nervously; there were family grievances and painful childhood memories that he'd rather keep hidden.

"No. Though you were crying for Nicolas," Combeferre told him. "I think you were remembering that time when we decided to play treasure hunt in the woods at the edge of your estate. I had to calm you down because you were getting so frantic."

"Oh God!" Julien blushed vividly then coughed again. "Was anyone else here?"

"Only Jehan," said Combeferre. "And he understood. Julien, no one is going to think you're weak because you miss your brother. It's all right to miss him."

Combeferre didn't fail to notice the tears welling up in his friend's eyes. He patted his shoulder comfortingly. He missed Nicolas too, and he had only been his friend not his brother, so he understood what Enjolras was going through.

Before he could talk however, their other three friends burst into the room, having heard Enjolras's calm voice. They were all overjoyed to see Enjolras at least partway back to normal – the cough and sore throat would take a few more days to be banished. Courfeyrac almost hugged his head off; he was squeezing so tightly, while Joly clapped him on the back over and over again and Prouvaire simply beamed at everyone.

They laughed and joked for a while, all tension and anxiety gone for the present, but the three visitors headed off soon after, for Enjolras was exhausted. They all promised to come back the next day and keep the still slightly weak young law student company, and to fill him in on what he'd missed.

* * *

So it was that a similarly happy sight met his eyes when Christophe Joly walked into Enjolras's bedroom the following morning, finding Prouvaire already there. Courfeyrac had gone to inform the rest of the group that Enjolras had recovered

Enjolras was smiling reminiscently, the unnatural flush on his face dulled to just a pink tint, Prouvaire was sitting by his bed, his eyes shining with amusement as Combeferre was animatedly telling an anecdote. From what Joly, could pick up as he entered, it seemed to be about some childhood mischief that he and Enjolras had gotten into, which had gone dreadfully wrong.

"…well, you can imagine the horror on our faces, Jehan, when we realised we hadn't dumped the water all over Julien's brother Antoine, but over both our fathers instead!"

Prouvaire burst into peals of infectious laughter – the one thing Joly didn't mind being infected by – and wiped his eyes. "Oh Etienne, I wish I could have been there! What did you do?"

"There was nothing to do but admit what we had been planning to do to Antoine, and that it had gone wrong." chuckled Enjolras. "With both out fathers glaring at us, there was no other option."

"I will wager you both slept on your stomachs that night, my friends!" grinned Joly, as he crossed to join them. "I imagine your fathers were less than pleased by your misbehaviour."

"Morning, Christophe!" said Combeferre brightly. "No, our fathers were not at all pleased. I was lucky though; my parents have never been quite as strict as Julien's parents are. I got off with a good scolding from Papa and being sent to bed as soon as we got home. It was poor Julien who got the thrashing."

"Mmmh. My father never did have much of a sense of humour!" said Enjolras wryly, and the others were glad to see his fever had not robbed him of his wittiness. "It was worth the thrashing though, to see his face when that water poured over his head!"

Enjolras began to laugh again, which gave way to some more coughing, though nothing near as violent as it had been before. Combeferre looked at him anxiously, but Enjolras reassured him with a smile. Before he could say another word, the door opened again and the remainder of the Amis (minus only LeClair) came into the bedroom, all clapping on him on the shoulder and saying how pleased they were to see him awake. Even Grantaire, who, surprisingly enough, was sober, summoned the courage to clap him on the back and say how glad he was to see him on the road to recovery. He expected to be shot down in flames.

But, Combeferre had revealed the depth of Grantaire's intense loyalty to Enjolras, who had been moved to find that the young skeptic believed in him so devotedly. So, instead of glowering at him, Enjolras flashed Grantaire a happy smile and said:

"Thank you Luc. It is nice to be back." And Grantaire found that the warmth of friendship in Enjolras's eyes was more comforting than any alcohol.

"You know," said Courfeyrac, flopping idly down onto Combeferre's bed, pushing Feuilly out of the way and being subsequently hit with a pillow. "I went round to LeClair's rooms, and there was no sign of life. The windows are too dirty to see into and, because his landlady wasn't home, I've no idea where he went."

"We'll see him tomorrow," said Joly, furrowing his brow. "He has a class with Etienne and I first thing. He won't miss that!"

* * *

Claude LeClair was not a stupid man. He was a medical student, and he knew what all the blood he had coughed up since Friday meant. He knew what was coming.

He had not been able to get out of bed since Thursday night. He'd lain in the dimness while the room spun around him, then become a blur, then come sharply back into focus as the atmosphere had become hot, then cold, then hot again. He knew there was no hope. He knew what was wrong with him.

He didn't feel sorry for himself though. He had got this far on his own; he'd carry on on his own. He reached for an envelope and slid the money from his pawned jewellery inside it.

Lying back, he began to think of his friends; of the eloquent Enjolras, the kindly Combeferre, the thoughtful Joly…all of them. The greatest friends any man on earth could ever hope to be blessed with. The thought of them brought tears to his eyes, and, deciding he could not simply part from them, he reached for paper and a pen.

Swallowing another mouthful of blood that rose with a cough, Claude LeClair sat up in bed and began to write.

_My dear, dear friends…_


	9. Heartbreak

Combeferre would have preferred Enjolras to stay in bed the next morning but, having awakened at his usual time, Enjolras was eager to be up and about.

"Etienne I feel so much better today, I swear," he promised earnestly. "My throat doesn't even hurt!"

"All right! I give in!" grinned Combeferre. "But if you're lying…"

"I'm not, I promise!" laughed Enjolras, amused by the stern look on Combeferre's face. "I feel well enough to go to class and I really do need to attend. I've missed two lessons, and I doubt Jerôme has taken any notes, so I will have to borrow from Didier or Edouard."

"Hurry up and get dressed then," said Combeferre. "I'll walk with you. I've got a class with Christophe and Claude."

"I'm sorry, Etienne, I…fainted before I could talk to LeClair about his money problems on Wednesday night," Enjolras still squirmed at the thought of having fainted in front of everyone. "I'll have a word with him after the classes."

"Good idea. Coming from one obstinate individual to another, it might just convince him!" grinned Combeferre wickedly, ducking as Enjolras threw a pillow at him. "Do you want to meet us at the Lemblin for lunch?"

"All right," said Enjolras absently, looking for his cravat. He finally found it and tied it, looking back to his normal dignified self. Combeferre finished binding back his soft brown curls and the two gathered their books and left the apartment. They met Courfeyrac and Prouvaire at the first landing.

"Thank God you're well again Julien!" said Courfeyrac fervently. "I _really_ need to borrow your essay notes!"

"_Mon Dieu, _Jerôme!" exclaimed Combeferre. "Don't tell me you still haven't finished that essay! I thought you were doing it last night."

"Blame Feuilly!" said Courfeyrac at once. "He came round with a book on Grecian myth for Jehan and we started talking and I didn't notice the time!"

"Even though I managed to get _two_ essays done while we were chatting!" said Prouvaire dryly, raising his eyebrows.

"Shut up, Jehan!" grinned Courfeyrac as they made their way out onto the street. "You take your studies more seriously than I do!"

"Jerôme, _Bahorel_ takes his studies more seriously than you do!" Enjolras rolled his eyes.

"Bahorel? Sebastien doesn't go to university, Julien!" said Courfeyrac, baffled.

"My point exactly!" said Enjolras and Prouvaire and Combeferre burst into laughter. Courfeyrac, realising he'd fallen into that trap easily enough, fell silent.

When the four friends passed through the huge arched doorway into the university, they separated; Courfeyrac and Enjolras going to the left, Combeferre to the right, and Prouvaire up the stairs in the hallway.

Enjolras and Courfeyrac found the room already crowded when they arrived at their allotted lecture room. They took their seats and found Didier Ducos and Edouard Chaumier over beside them in an instant.

"Julien, are you feeling better?" grinned Ducos genially – he was a bit of a dunce, but a very cheerful one, so one really couldn't help but like him. "What was the matter with you?"

"Influenza and a fever," said Enjolras with a sigh. "But I've missed two lectures now, and it's getting near to the final examinations. May I borrow your notes please to copy them up?" Chaumier smiled and handed over a few pages, which Enjolras thankfully took.

"You never asked for _my _notes!" said Courfeyrac indignantly.

"Did you take any?" asked Enjolras disbelievingly and Courfeyrac blushed.

"Well, no…but…"

"I didn't think so. I rest my case!" laughed his blond friend, turning back to their classmates. "_Merci_, Edouard. I'll return them tomorrow."

"Oh Christ, look who's coming!" groaned Courfeyrac and the others looked round to see Henri Leroux bustling into class.

"Bloody hell!" groaned Ducos comically. "If there's illness going round, why couldn't he have come down with laryngitis?"

"Ah, Julien! You're back!" Leroux began to head for the four grim-faced students in the second row of desks, but before he could get another word spoken, the sour faced Professor Artoire stormed into the room, his black robes billowing around him like the cloud of darkness he always seemed to be under.

"Take your seats!" he barked. "We've no time to waste on idle conversation!"

Leroux hurried off to his own seat and Courfeyrac turned to Enjolras with a grin. "That, my friend," he said "Is what is referred to as 'the nick of time'. I've never been so glad to see Professor Artoire!"

"Sssh! He's coming over!" said Ducos quietly. And indeed, the miserable looking man came over to their desks and stopped in front of Enjolras.

"You've missed two lecture!" he said abruptly. "I trust you know that you will not be exempt from the essay due tomorrow!"

"Yes, Professor," said Enjolras wearily and Courfeyrac smirked.

"And as for you, you've idled away the last two lessons!" snapped Artoire, making Courfeyrac flush. "If I do not have a passable essay from you tomorrow, I will set you an extra dissertation on the etiquette of the French Court Room!"

"Yes, Professor," said Courfeyrac meekly and, as Artoire stormed back to the front of the room, he turned a pair of pleading green eyes to Enjolras.

"All right!" Enjolras smiled. "You can borrow my notes!" And he and Courfeyrac prepared themselves to be bored.

Meanwhile, in the medical corridor, Christophe Joly and Etienne Combeferre were anxiously pondering the whereabouts of Claude LeClair, who had not turned up for their lecture.

"It's not like him!" said Combeferre worriedly. "I mean, he's driven himself to exhaustion before and gone without food, but he's always put his studies first! We have to find out what is going on!"

"I know," said Joly, thoroughly. "Well, after lunch, I'm going round to his rooms. If he _is_ doing without in order to save money, he'll regret it when I get hold of him!"

"And Joly in a fury is not a thing to tangle with!" grinned Combeferre. "Bahorel will testify to that!"

"All right, you…"

"Combeferre! Joly! If you insist on talking during the lesson, I will send you out of the room! Do you really need to be treated like badly behaved schoolboys?"

"No, Professor. _Pardon_," Combeferre blushed scarlet and looked at the desk, while Joly's cheeks glowed with embarrassment beside him.

"Good! Now if I may continue with the lesson, the inflammation of the liver can lead to…"

* * *

To both Combeferre and Joly's utter humiliation, their lecturer kept them back as he dismissed the rest of the class, to further reprimand them for what he deemed was 'childish impertinence'. As a result, they were late in meeting Courfeyrac and Enjolras and found their two friends sitting on the wall outside the university, in the middle of a conversation about families.

"How many brothers and sisters do you have? I thought you were an only child!" Courfeyrac was saying in surprise.

"No. I have three older brothers; René is the eldest. He's a surgeon in Marseille. He is a good man, but I don't see him very often anymore. Then there's Louis; whom I dislike, and Antoine; whom I despise even more. He's arrogant and cold-hearted, so naturally he's Papa's favourite. I have an elder sister called Marie and a younger sister called Christine, whom I adore. I did have another brother, but he died when I was eleven." Enjolras said all this rather quickly and looked at the ground as he finished.

"Your father can't be that bad, surely," said Courfeyrac lightly. "I mean, my father used to give me some ferocious hidings for all the trouble I got into, but he has always always kind and jolly, even when I drove him almost to distraction!"

"Mine's isn't like that," said Enjolras flatly. "I could all pull the colours of the rainbow right out of the clouds and give them to my father; and he'd still say I was a disgrace because they weren't in the right order!"

"Sorry we're late, you two!" said Combeferre as they hurried over. "Are you ready to go?" The two law students slipped off the wall.

"Yes, what kept you?" asked Courfeyrac. Both Joly and Combeferre went scarlet and didn't answer.

"Come along, Jehan will be wondering where we've gone!"Joly beckoned them onwards, changing the subject. "And after lunch, we are going round to see what Claude thinks he's playing at!"

* * *

True to their word, the five solemn young students took a detour after lunch and, instead of heading back to the wealthy streets where they lived, traipsed down to the poorer area of town. They soon arrived at the building where Claude LeClair had his pitiful room and Joly knocked on the door.

It was opened by Claude's landlady, who was crying hysterically; a handkerchief clutched in her shaking hand.

"Madame Dupont! Heaven's above, whatever's the matter?" exclaimed Joly, running through the door and supporting her.

"Oh, Monsieur Joly, I'm so glad you came! I…" The poor woman dissolved into a heart-wrenching sobbing, throwing her arms about Joly's slender frame as she almost over balanced in her grief.

"You need to sit down," said Joly gently, seeing that pressing for answers now would not help. "Come along. Jehan, could you fetch her a glass of water please?"

"_Oui_, of course," Prouvaire dashed through to the kitchen, while Combeferre and Joly guided Madame Dupont to a chair and got her to sit down. Enjolras and Courfeyrac watched on in distress as they calmed her. She swallowed some of the water Jehan brought and clasped her shaking hands together as she tried to regain composure.

"Where's Claude?" asked Combeferre in bewilderment. LeClair was very fond of his kindly landlady and would surely have not have gone out if she was in this kind of state!

At that, Madame Dupont began to sob again, her whole body shaking as her cries shuddered through her. Combeferre felt his blood run cold. "Oh God! Monsieur Combeferre…he…Claude…he…he died this morning!" she wailed and began to cry as if her heart would break.

The colour drained from the five students' faces as they reeled in shock. No one spoke. No one wanted to. No one wanted to make it seem real, because it_ had_ to be a nightmare! Joly sank silently into a chair, his knees giving way, while Prouvaire sat in the corner, trembling as if in shock. Courfeyrac opened and closed his mouth over and over again, words failing him. Combeferre still attempted to comfort Madame Dupont, but his vision was blurred with tears. And poor Enjolras just stood there, colourless and stiff, shaking.

"He died? What do you mean?" asked Courfeyrac eventually, his voice getting higher as he spoke. He couldn't bear to think. Combeferre put his arm around him.

"Jerôme, I think it's clear what she means," he said gently, his voice shaking. "Claude…"

"I know!" Courfeyrac's voice broke. "But…I mean…_how_? What was wrong with him?"

"He was so ill!" Madame Dupont sobbed heartbrokenly. "I wanted to send for a doctor but he wouldn't let me! He said it wasn't serious!"

"May we go through?" asked Combeferre quietly, a tear running down his cheek. They sent for a neighbour to sit with the poor grief-stricken woman and, having left her in the capable hands of the motherly Madame Rogir, they proceeded numbly to Claude's room.

There was a basin of blood-stained vomit lying next to the bed, and in the bed was the body of Claude LeClair, completely stone cold.

The normal healthy flush had drained from his cheeks to be replaced with a ghostly pallor. The mouth that had always been smiling and laughing was open in an almost passive expression; a droplet of blood that had been running from his mouth had dried on his chin. His floppy chestnut hair was in disarray, all over his forehead.

It was horrible to see LeClair, who had been so exuberant and full of life, lying there with not a shred of warmth left. His eyes were the worst – the green orbs that had constantly been alive with good humour, twinkling with laughter and shining with compassion for all his fellow man were now dulled, faded, almost as if they had been the doors to LeClair's spirit, which had been slammed shut far too soon.

The sight of this heartbreaking loss was simply too much for Prouvaire, who burst into tears. Combeferre hastened to put an arm around his friend, crying his own silent tears into Prouvaire's hair, feeling Prouvaire's body shake with the grief that was coursing through him. Courfeyrac had collapsed onto the chair at the foot of the bed, his head resting against the wooden frame as he sobbed silently, all the humour and mischief struck from him with the force of a canon ball.

Joly stood next to the bed, looking at LeClair's face, his own contorted with pain and grief, tears running down his cheeks as fleetingly as drops of rain. He gently drew LeClair's eyelids down, plunging his friend's bright, loving soul into darkness forever, while making his own brain numbly try to swallow the fact that they would never hear Claude LeClair's merry laugh again.

"He was ill?" he asked of no one in particular, his voice thick with tears and dangerously close to cracking. "Why didn't he tell us? Why didn't he come to us for help? God, Claude, why did you let your pride bring you down! We would have done anything to help you. Why did you have to die?"

Joly slumped down onto his knees, hiding his face in his hands as he began to cry as loudly as Prouvaire was. Death was normal – it was a fact of life – but not like this. Claude had only been twenty one; young and happy and friendly to everyone. He had been eager to better himself, eager to do well, willing to do anything to help anyone in need. And everyone had loved him dearly, none more so than the five heartbroken students in the dim, lifeless room. It had cruel to take him so suddenly, so very cruel!

"What are you playing at, God?" sobbed Prouvaire into Combeferre's shoulder. "Why did you want to take him away?"

Combeferre hugged the quiet poet tighter, his own weeping preventing him from speaking words of comfort. Ever tender and caring, even when his own heart felt like it had been broken, he looked up to see how Enjolras was dealing with the grief.

Enjolras was standing about three steps from the foot of the bed, shaking and incredibly pale; so pale, in fact, that his skin was in comparison with poor Claude's cold white face. The expression of grief and sheer anguish on Enjolras's handsome face was enough to send Combeferre back into more sobs. It was painful to see his friend to utterly distraught. Enjolras's face was stony and his eyes were dry. But there was no need for him to shed tears to show his feelings – the pain in his eyes was so intense, it was if someone had struck him to the very depths of his being and physically shattered his heart.

"How could this happen?" wept Courfeyrac, raising his head as he gulped for air. "How could he have hidden this from us? How could we not have _noticed_?I…what's that?"

"What?" Joly looked up, still sobbing. Courfeyrac picked an envelope up from the foot of the bed. As he lifted it, there was a light clink of something metallic from inside it.

"Look…look at this," he said shakily, as his weeping compatriots gathered around him to read see. "Look at what is says." They all glanced at the writing on the front.

_To Les Amis De L'ABC_

Joly rubbed his eyes and ran his hands through his smooth dark brown hair. He blinked once more, rubbed the tears from his cheeks and choked on a sob. "Open it," he said.


	10. Saying Goodbye To Claude

Courfeyrac opened the envelope with shaking hands, not sure if he really wanted to read what was inside. He withdrew a folded piece of paper and then turned the envelope upside down. A handful of coins fell onto the bedspread.

"It's…it's a letter from Claude," Courfeyrac said tremulously as he unfolded the paper.

"Read it, _mon ami,_" said Combeferre tearfully, as they all came to stand around the weeping law student. Courfeyrac cleared his throat, fighting for composure, and began to read the letter aloud.

"_My dear, dear friends,_

_If you have only just received this, then I have no doubt that I, by now, died. I beg of you, do not grieve over much for me. I am not worth it._

_I have known for a few days now that my life is drawing to a close, but I could not bear to share that information with you and cause you more worry, especially when everyone was so anxious about Julien. I am sure that he will make a full recovery and, when he does, please let him know how glad I would have been to see him well again._

_The money in the envelope is this week's rent and a little extra. Please give it to Madame Dupont and convey my most sincere thanks for the hospitality and unending kindness she has always shown me. _

_I expect you are wondering why I did not use the money to send for a doctor before the illness got so terrible, but I was simply too proud to fall behind on my payments and live off someone else's charity. You all often told me that I was too proud and stubborn for my own good, so perhaps it is only fitting that it was my downfall. But still, there is no use looking back now and wishing I'd done things differently._

_You are probably also wondering why I didn't come to borrow, when you'd so generously offered to help me on countless occasions. You must understand the enormous amount of respect I have for each and every one of you, which prevented me from treating you in such a way. You will think me even more pig headed for this, I'm sure – and I see know that you're right - but I couldn't use my friends as a source of income and I was foolishly determined to get through everything on my own. So please; Etienne, Christophe – do not feel yourselves to blame for my death. My pride was my fatal flaw. _

_I suppose all that remains now is for me to thank you from the bottom of my heart for the warmth and friendship you have all showed me these past three years. You are truly the best and dearest friends a man could ever hope to be blessed with and I cannot describe to you how much I have enjoyed our meetings. I beg of you, please don't forget me completely._

_And Julien, if you have recovered to read this, please take my advice, mon ami. I know you are as stubborn as I am, but do not let your pride destroy you as I have. The others all love and respect you – don't be afraid to open up to them and let them know your worries. They will always stand by you, and help you if they can. Do not give up on your cause. You are the future of France, Julien – I know it, and so do they – you have no idea how much I regret that I will not be there to see it._

_I have no doubt, mes amis, that we will all see each other again, beyond this world. And neither illness, nor politics, nor injustice will be able to trouble us there. I can promise that my heart will sing when I am once again in your company. Until then, my dear friends, please believe me to be_

_most sincerely and affectionately yours,_

_Claude LeClair."_

Courfeyrac's voice shattered as he finished the letter and he buried his face in his hands, sobbing uncontrollably. Prouvaire, who had cried the whole way through it, sat down beside him and hugged him tightly, and the two sobbed in each other's embrace.

Joly, who was crying inconsolably, went to wash the dried blood from LeClair's face. Combeferre came to help, but his vision was so blurred with tears, he couldn't do anything at all. "He could have saved himself with that rent money, Etienne!" sobbed Joly, tears running down his flushed face. "If he'd only borrowed from us! Or if we'd come here earlier…" He couldn't finish the sentence because his throat was too tight.

"There's no use in thinking that!" said Combeferre shakily, wiping the tears from his eyes. "We cannot bring him back, Christophe; we've got to accept that he is gone."

"I can't believe it's happened like this!" wailed Prouvaire into Courfeyrac's jacket.

"I know, Jehan, I know," said Joly, trying to pull himself together as he picked up another bit of paper from the bedspread. "None of us expected this!"

The piece of paper turned out to be Claude's will. He wanted his medical equipment to be divided between Combeferre and Joly; the carbine that had been his father's, the one thing he couldn't bear to pawn, to go to Enjolras, his red leather-bound Voltaire to Prouvaire and so on. He bequeathed something to each of the friends. Due to his poverty, they were small and everyday things, but they were so heartbreakingly touching. Combeferre knew that that one carbine meant more to Enjolras than ten times the large sum of money left to him by his uncle when he died a few years ago.

"I think we should go now," said Combeferre, straightening up and breathing shallowly. "One of us will have to fetch an undertaker and one will have to go to the chapel and…we're going to have to let the others know."

"I'm going to stay with him," said Joly, determined even in tears. "I don't want him to be alone, not now."

"All right," said Combeferre gently, as the others made their way out of the door. He looked back suddenly. "Julien?"

Enjolras had not moved since Courfeyrac began to read the letter. He was still shaking and ghostly pale. He looked like he was in shock; his face an emotionless marble carving, his eyes distant globes of ice.

"Julien." Combeferre said again softly, going over and putting a strong arm around his friend. That brought him out of his daze at least, and he looked up at Combeferre, who was brought to tears again when he saw the intense pain in Enjolras's eyes. "Come on, _mon ami_, we must tell the others."

Enjolras nodded dumbly, and was led out of the room.

* * *

The Amis of the ABC clubbed together to give Claude LeClair a decent funeral. They all gave willingly, and though the likes of Enjolras and Combeferre and the other wealthier students gave large amounts, the smaller sums contributed by Feuilly and L'Aigle were just as poignant. Even Grantaire gave as much, if not more, than he could afford and went without a single drink for more than a week as a result, which was perhaps the most touching gesture of all.

It was a small service in the university chapel. All the amis were there, of course, and Madame Dupont, as well as many of the medical students who'd shared classes with LeClair. He had been a very popular young man.

None of the Amis except the white-faced Enjolras could hold back their tears during the funeral. They all wept quietly, tears of heartbroken grief streaming down their faces, but Joly seemed to be taking it worst. The young hypochondriac's shoulder's shook and his eyes were red beyond belief. To everyone's utter surprise, it was Bahorel…_Bahorel_…who put his arm around him and whispered words of comfort, despite the ferocious arguments they'd had in the past. Combeferre saw this and wished that he could smile. LeClair would have been delighted to see that.

Prouvaire read a poem he'd written for LeClair halfway through the service. He stood up, cleared his throat, and tried to speak through his tears.

"He was a young man with so much to give

With a heart of gold; so full of love.

And although denied his chance to live,

Is free now, like a dove."

The fair-haired poet read on, bringing more tears to everyone's eyes until, in the very last line, his voice gave way and he dissolved into sobbing.

"God bless you, Claude!" he whispered, and returned to his seat. A distraught Feuilly put his arm around Prouvaire's shoulders and squeezed him tightly.

"He would have been so proud of you, Jehan," he whispered, and then broke down in tears himself.

After the service was over, and poor LeClair laid to rest, the Amis decided to go back to Courfeyrac's flat and discuss what would be a fitting tribute to their friend. The last of the other attendees had gone and, having laid flowers and said their separate prayers for LeClair, the amis were ready to depart now themselves. There was only one problem…

Enjolras had vanished.

"I'll look for him," said Combeferre at once. "I don't think he's taking this too well."

He hastened back into the churchyard and frantically searched for about five minutes before he looked over to the bench beside the wall and saw a figure in black sitting there with his head in his hands. The shimmering blond hair gave away the identity at once.

"Julien!" Combeferre hurried over but stopped in his tracks when he realised that Enjolras was crying. Not just crying, but sobbing; so hard that he must have been in physical pain. Each cry seemed to come from the depths of his heart and it brought back painful memories to Combeferre, of a day eight years before.

O+ **Flashback **+O

On the day of Nicolas Enjolras's funeral, his younger brother Julien honestly did try his best to hold back his tears in the church. He bit his tongue and swallowed his sobs until he had almost choked on them. But even so, the tears ran down his cheeks, making his eyes red and swollen, and his breathing erratic.

Etienne Combeferre, who was sitting in the next pew with his father, mother and sisters, watched his best friend cry and noticed the way the stony faced Monsieur Enjolras glared at his youngest son for showing so much emotion. Then he remembered the bear-hug that his own father, Dr Combeferre, had given him that morning.

"It is all right to grieve, Etienne," he had told his son gently. "It is natural to mourn him. You must not be ashamed of your tears, son."

The difference in their fathers' reactions seemed a brutal contrast to young Etienne, even more so when they returned to the Enjolras estate. Julien's father had taken him aside and furiously scolded his grief-stricken son. He told him that he'd disgraced the family by 'weeping like an infant' and that he should be thoroughly ashamed of himself.

"I…I'm sorry, Papa," Julien had said, scrubbing at his damp eyes. "I did not mean to let you down."

And when Etienne Combeferre looked for his friend quarter of an hour later, he was nowhere to be found. He hunted high and low before trying the gardens and found Julien there, hunched up beneath a tree, crying himself insensible.

Etienne hesitated briefly, wondering if he should fetch René, Julien's eldest brother and ten years his senior, who was very fond of Julien and would not scold him. Rather, he would hug him as his father should have done, and tell him that it was all right to cry for Nicolas.

But instead, knowing he'd be questioned as to Julien's whereabouts if he went back inside, Etienne went forward alone and put his hand on the weeping boy's shoulder.

"Julien, what are you doing out here, _petit_?" he asked, then kicked himself mentally – 'petit' had been Nicolas's nickname for his little brother.

"Papa says I mustn't cry in front of everyone," Julien hiccupped, tears leaving shining lines on his face. "But I miss my brother, 'Tienne! I miss him so much!"

Etienne broke down in tears too. Nicolas had been a good friend. The three of them had played together almost every day since they were infants. He put his arms around Julien and the two of them wept in each other's embrace until they lost track of time. Luckily, it was René who discovered them and when he did, he hugged them both tightly and simply let them cry.

"That's it, little brother," he'd said, rubbing Julien's back. "Let it out. Never mind what Papa said, there's nothing to be ashamed of. I miss him too."

And to protect them from his father's wrath, René waited until their eyes were dry before taking them back inside.

O+ **End of flashback** +O

It broke Combeferre's heart to see Enjolras weeping in such a manner again; hidden away as if frightened to show his feelings. The young doctor knew then that, no matter how hard he and René had tried to tell him otherwise, Julien had never forgotten his father's cruel words.

"Julien," he said softly, sitting down beside him and putting an arm around Enjolras's heaving shoulders. His friend raised his head. With his swollen eyes and tear-stained face, he looked like he was eleven years old once more. "You shouldn't weep alone. We're all going to miss him; you have nothing to be ashamed of."

"It's my…fault…he…died!" Enjolras sobbed was in such a state that he could hardly speak. Combeferre was gobsmacked. He hadn't expected this!

"What are you talking about?" he asked, tightening his arm around the blond. "Julien, how on earth could it be your fault?"

"If I…hadn't b-been so…stubborn and p-pigheaded!" choked Enjolras, with another wrenching sob. "If I'd just…listened to you…and seen a doctor…I wouldn't have gone to the Musain! You'd…you'd have n-noticed he was ill! If I hadn't been ill, he'd have…t-told you what was wrong with him! He didn't want you to worry… since everyone was…worried about me…but if I hadn't fainted…they'd have noticed…his absence at the…F-Friday meeting! It's because of me…there wasn't one! If I hadn't…b-b-been sick…we'd have had one and been able…to help him! It's my fault for getting sick! I wish I had…died instead! It's my…fault! It's m-my fault!" And he began to sob hysterically into his hands. Combeferre grabbed him in a fierce embrace and held him tightly, letting his normally grave-faced friend sob into his shoulder.

"Julien, don't ever let me hear you say that again!" he said shakily, rubbing his friend's back as René had done years earlier. "You are not to blame, do you hear me? You can't hold yourself responsible because you became ill! Remember what you always tell Grantaire – 'I'm no God; I'm as human as you are'? You're not Apollo, Julien, you're human! Every human is susceptible to illness!"

"But I should have admitted it!" Enjolras sobbed painfully. "I as good as killed him!"

"Claude didn't want to be dependent on anyone, Julien!" said Combeferre gently. "He wouldn't have told us, whether you were ill or not. He was independent and strong-spirited. He wanted to get by on his own. He had his pride – he said so in that letter, remember? He said that no one was to blame for this!"

Enjolras just clung to Combeferre tighter and cried even harder. Combeferre smoothed down his hair gently, never letting him go.

"You did not kill Claude, Julien!" he said firmly. "The government killed him. The injustice killed him. He'd have sent for a doctor if he could have afforded one. If you hadn't seen one, you might have died too! Ssssh now, _mon ami_. You are not to blame. Let it go. Social injustice is responsible; nobody else."

Enjolras cried in his friends arms for several long minutes before he eventually calmed down. He'd wept so much that he'd given himself the hiccups. And Combeferre still held him, whispering comforting words and telling him he was not to blame.

Suddenly, he sat back and looked into Combeferre's chocolate-coloured eyes with his own red swollen ones. He took a deep breath, and hiccupped again.

"I will not let this injustice go unanswered, Etienne," he said, in something similar to his normal, calm voice. "I will not let Claude's death be meaningless. One day, I will make a stand and fight against the injustice in France."

Combeferre looked round to see the remainder of the Amis standing behind him. They'd come to see where the two of them had gone to. Cleary, they'd heard Enjolras's last few sentences and there was approval and determination written on every face.

"I know you will, Julien," Combeferre gave a soft smile as he reached up to dry Enjolras's tears away. "And we will all be right behind you!"


	11. Epilogue: We will never forget him!

**1832**

* * *

So it was that, when Courfeyrac brought the guileless young Marius Pontmercy into the back room of the Musain a couple of years later, he simply introduced him as 'a pupil'.

And Marius, as he stood nervously beside his new friend, found eight pairs of eyes fixed on him. Some, like Feuilly and Prouvaire, seemed to be looking at him judgementally, while others, like Joly and Bahorel, were looking at him with open hostility. These glares served only to make the poor young man nervous beyond belief and he stuttered through his answers to Enjolras's questions and struggled to return Courfeyrac's easy grin.

As a result poor Marius left the meeting very much downhearted.

After he left, all the other Amis remained. Combeferre solemnly got to his feet and addressed the room calmly and earnestly.

"He is not Claude, my friends," he said, making the others look up in surprise. "He cannot ever replace Claude, and nor is he trying to. Give the poor boy a chance. Let us not judge our newest arrival by the treasure we have lost."

Joly lowered his head, tears in his eyes, while Courfeyrac smiled and nodded approvingly. Enjolras crossed the room with a grave expression and laid his hand on Combeferre's shoulder.

"Well said, Etienne," he gave a gentle smile and then turned to the others. "Claude will always be in our hearts, but there is room in the Musain for one more."

Therefore, Marius Pontmercy was warmly welcomed at the next meeting, soon becoming friends with all the group. But even then, no one ever had the heart to refer to Marius as 'the tenth Ami', because they all knew that that title belonged to the person who lay in the grave by the gate of the churchyard, which was decorated with flowers every fortnight by one of his nine friends.

And they all knew, deep in their hearts,that on the day Enjolras took up that treasured carbine and made his stand against the injustice in France…

Claude LeClair would be with them.

* * *

**And c'est finis, the story's done.**


End file.
